


bound with everlasting chains

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Injury, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Slow Burn, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-03-26 17:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19010386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: After the events of The Unknowing, Tim finds out he's Jon's guardian angel.He really,reallydoesn't want to be Jon's guardian angel.[post-S3; future chaptersmostlycanon-compliant up until MAG156. Spoilers abound]





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry it turned out this way, Tim.”

“What are you talking about, Dan? I got to _choose_ my death. And this was… this was pretty good, all things considered. You don’t want to know the kinds of shit that went on at the Institute.”

“I mean, I saw the circus, so I think I got enough of it without your workplace.”

“… true. God, if anyone has a right to be sorry–”

“Don’t start in again. You’ve been going since you got here.”

“I’ve had years of this building up, what do you expect?”

“And _I_ said, you shouldn’t have carried all this guilt. You knew I’d poke my nose in where it didn’t belong, one day. And I did.”

“You were just a dumb kid.”

“And you're just a dumb _ass_.”

“Oi. Don't talk to your elders that way–”

“Implying that you are truly old as balls– _Timothy–_ stop, oh my god–”

“Say uncle, little bro, and I might.”

“Fuck off! Ahh, ah– fine, fine! Uncle, _uncle,_ get off me!”

“Heh… good to know I can _still_ kick your arse.”

“Cock.”

“Ha.”

…

“You know… that’s not what I meant, though.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m just glad you got this time here.”

“....... what are you talking about, Danny?”

“It’s time to go back.”

 _“… dammit,_ what? No.”

“Yes, Tim.”

 _“No,_ I’m not– I’m _done,_ Dan, I am _done–”_

“For a moment, I thought things had changed… but he came through.”

_“Who?”_

“I am sorry, Tim.”

“No. _No,_ I’m _not_ going back. I–”

“Yes.”

 _“No_ , Danny, shut _up,_ just shut up–”

“I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Tim.”

“Danny, no, Danny– _DANNY!”_

  


The room was dull metal. Silver and gray and white, with fluorescence bathing the room so brightly it should have made his _eyes_ burn. It didn’t, and Tim wasn’t bothered anyway, because he _knew_ he was dead, he _had_ been dead, he’d been with _Danny,_ and now he was… he was… fuck. This was a hospital room. And not an empty one.

“Christ.” It was Jon, in that hospital bed, looking small and pale and… not _alive_ like a human ought to have been. He wasn’t breathing. Tim could tell from this distance. So still, and devoid of life. But… in the hospital, hooked up to machines without a pulse, and Georgie and Martin sitting vigil. Watching a corpse. “No, no, no…”

Except Jon wasn’t a corpse, couldn’t be. Because _he_ couldn’t be dead, and they wouldn’t be keeping his body _here_ if there wasn’t something tethering him to life. But Tim didn’t know. And he didn’t _care._

“No, no, no no no. No. I can’t be back. I don’t want to be back,” he muttered. “I can’t be back.”

Jon wasn’t moving. Georgie and Martin were, minutely, gaunt and aching. But they weren’t looking at him. They were only looking at Jon, and Tim just… stormed forward, in a rush of anger because he _had_ his way out. He’d been _free._ Out of this goddamn mess, _he’d_ blown the circus to _bits,_ himself included, so he couldn’t. be. back.

“What the _hell_ happened?” he demanded. “I was– what _happened?!”_

No one looked up. No one even reacted. Tim looked between Georgie, and Martin, and settled on him, because of the two, he _knew_ Martin and knew he could get answers from him. “Martin, what the hell is happening? Tell me what happened at the museum. _Now.”_

Apropos of nothing, Georgie spoke. “You can go home, you know.”

For a wild moment, Tim thought she was talking to him.

But then Martin responded instead, finally looking away from Jon. His eyes were red, but he smiled, a small and battered thing, across the room at her. “I know, but I’ll stay awhile longer.”

“Martin…”

“Please, Georgie. I–I don't know when I'll be able to come back–”

She looked at him for a long moment, where Tim just looked between them and… waited. For something. He didn’t even know. And then Georgie nodded, once, and said “okay.”

This was _infuriating,_ and he was out of goddamn patience. “Marti–”

“But at least come over here and try to get some sleep,” Georgie continued.

“I… I guess,” Martin murmured, and Tim watched as he finally straightened up, finally pulled his hand from the bed where his fingertips were touching Jon’s pale hand. “Until you wanna go home.”

“Sure.”

Tim scowled. At Martin’s incessant pining and being ignored and whatever hell _else_ was going on here. He wanted to go _back._ “Listen, I don’t know _what’s_ going on, but–”

Martin dragged himself up, looking for all the world like… well, looking like Tim thought he’d look if Jon was ever dead, or dying, or _whatever–_

– he moved to intercept him, and Martin just… passed right through him.

It was then that things _really_ clicked into perspective. Someone being able to walk through you kind of did that.

The swoop in his stomach startled out a gasp. Or maybe it was just that _Martin had walked through him._ What did you even _do_ in that situation?!

Directly behind him now, Martin jerked to a stop.

“Martin?”

Tim turned his head minutely, watching from the corner of his eye as Martin wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into the old, familiar jumper he was wearing like he was physically holding himself together. Or cold. Maybe just cold, he thought dully, as Martin bodily shivered.

“Martin,” Georgie repeated, getting up.

Martin looked up. “No, no, I’m… s–sorry. I just… I really hate hospitals,” he said, dropped his arms, and slouched over to the couch.

Georgie rest her hand on his shoulder, just for a second, and then Tim instinctively stepped out of the way when she walked past the bed. Not that it would have mattered. It… didn’t matter.

They couldn’t see him. He wasn’t really there. Because he _was_ dead. He had been dead, and now… now _he_ was there but he wasn’t, and Martin was _cold_ moving through Tim’s… what… metaphysical form?

He had come back in the simplest way possible. He had been dead. He _was_ still dead. He… God. If he hadn’t lived through the past two years, Tim wouldn’t have thought it was possible that he could actually be a _ghost._

But here he was. Here he was.

He breathed in, and out, and _again,_ even though the swell of his lungs barely registered and Tim suspected he didn’t need to _breathe_ now, anyway. Then, he disregarded Martin tugging a blanket around his own shoulders, settled uneasily on the sofa, and Georgie, perched on the edge of the chair Martin had just vacated, holding Jon’s hand now, and just… looked at Jon. Looked at their Archivist.

 _The_ fucking Archivist.

Half dead, or whatever had happened to him after Tim had pressed the detonator at the circus. Still _here,_ still the reason that _Tim_ was still here, and he scowled at the man laying lifeless in the hospital bed.

His fault. _Jon’s_ fault. Still Jon’s fault, even after Tim had _sacrificed himself_ to protect the whole world. _Still_ Jon’s fault that Tim was _still._ here.

“Goddammit,” Tim murmured. “God _dammit,_ Jon.”

Even in _death,_ they just wouldn’t let him escape.

He slumped into one of the free chairs, cursing Jon and Elias and The Eye, if it was watching. If it could still _see_ him. But of course it could. Who was he kidding? Dead or not, he was still part of this _scheme._

He had to find a way out. He had to find his way back.

His eyes settled on Jon again. And, even if The Eye was watching… it wasn’t like anyone else could see him glare.

So he did. Oh, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know why I didn't lose it over the end of s3? _because he's not dead in my mind_  
>  flips off canon, backflips out without breaking eye contact
> 
> in all seriousness! this is happening pretty quickly after episode 119 so expect the continuation of bitter!Tim. but also look at the tags, you know what we're here for, heh
> 
> also yes, being ripped away from the otherworld with Danny to be punted back to the realm of the living hurt. a lot.


	2. Chapter 2

He couldn’t leave.

Trust him, he’d been _trying._ If he walked out the door to Jon’s room, he would just… walk back in. The hallway was _there,_ it was, he could _see_ it, but if he left, he was just… _back._ He supposed it didn’t surprise him. Nothing did, anymore.

He thought about trying to go out through the window, except… he might be already _dead,_ but the ground was a _long_ way off.

So. He was stuck. _Predictably._

There had been plenty of curses bit off, laced with vitriol and fury. Now it was resignation. Like it had been before. Tim sighed and propped his elbow on the chair.

It had been two days, going by the rise and fall of the sun outside. He didn’t feel the urge to sleep, although he did, a bit. Although he didn’t know if it was sleep or just… slipping off into the Veil again, or whatever the hell the afterlife in this state was meant to be. He never got away from Jon’s hospital room, and he didn’t dream, either. So maybe it wasn’t sleeping, but it passed the time.

More or less.

The door slid open. He glanced around with little interest.

Martin hadn’t come back since the night Tim had appeared. _That_ was a bit weird, wasn’t it? Definitely. But he didn’t want to think about it too much. That would imply he was _settling in._

Otherwise, it was just Georgie. No Basira, no Melanie, no Daisy, especially no Elias. Tim wondered how long it had been. What had happened. He _tried_ to _not think about it._

The man that stepped into Jon’s room was unfamiliar. Tim perked up. Not a doctor or nurse, definitely not a _friend,_ Jon didn't have those, and something felt… odd. As much as it could, given he was a ghost himself.

The man took a seat in the chair Tim was vacating in his own realm; he nearly pitched himself out of it from the jolt that came with being… _touched._ It made him feel like falling. Like maybe he would just disintegrate away. And the person that passed through him seemed to feel _cold,_ always; he’d gotten Martin that first night, and Georgie once, and the nurses when he wasn’t paying attention. But it seemed like only he’d gotten the short end of the stick, this time. This man– _Oliver Banks–_ didn’t seem to notice Tim’s otherwordly cold at all.

_Not human,_ something in his head whispered, and Tim moved to the other side of Jon’s bed to keep a better eye on this guy.

It was truly annoying, really. Another statement, something about dark tendrils and death… but _Death,_ with a capital ‘D’, and Tim didn’t really know how he _knew_ that, but… The End, wasn’t it? Prattling on about Jon _making a choice,_ and Tim had found himself leaning half across the bed in, what? Suspense? by the time that Georgie interrupted. And it was annoying, and stupid, like some huge, sick joke, but he was… glad she _had._

Jon’s choice was living or dying, wasn’t it? Well, Tim wouldn’t pretend to know if that was what _Oliver Banks_ had been on about, but… hell, did it even matter? He was not-living proof that they couldn’t _actually_ die. Or just… _he_ couldn’t actually die…

Georgie went running after Oliver Banks, and Jon started breathing again.

That was weird, too. The absence of noise from the past two days– because Jon was _not_ breathing, not _moving,_ his heart wasn’t pumping, _anything–_ but he’d still been weirdly _there._ Not dead. _Somehow._ So the sudden but quiet intake of breath was… jarring.

And then Jon opened his eyes.

He looked like shit, honestly, tired and confused and, for a moment, maybe just… so very unlike Jon that it put the hair up on the back of Tim’s neck. But then it cleared, and Jon was just Jon, and not _The Archivist,_ tired and aching and befuddled Jon, blinking owlishly, looking vulnerable. Tim had never noticed how vulnerable Jon looked without the glasses. But then, maybe it was just because Jon was so _pale._

Like Death.

Tim grit his teeth, and looked back at Jon as Jon looked at him. Through him.

… no.

“Tim…”

_… at_ him.

“What… what happened…? Where… where…” Jon shook his head slightly, like dislodging a fly, and looked back at Tim. His voice was still rasping when he continued. “What happened…?”

Jon was looking at him. Jon was talking to him. Two days of radio silence from everyone that came into this hospital room, but now Jon was _awake_ and _talking to him._ Tim took a step back.

Jon still looked muddled, but, probably that Archivist in him, opened his mouth to probably ask more questions.

Tim cut off him, and asked one of his own. “You can see me?” he blurted. Less than eloquent, but it was a good place to start.

Jon’s brow furrowed. A tiny crease of concentration between his eyes. “Yes…?”

Tim swallowed. “You can hear me.”

“Yes…?”

“Well, that’s– that's _great,_ because you shouldn’t be able to– I’m _dead,_ Jon.” Saying it aloud was a bit like a slap in the face. Both to Jon, it looked like, and… and himself. He _was_ dead, he had been _okay_ being dead, because he’d been with his brother and he’d been _free,_ but… “I’ve… I know I’m dead.”

“… oh.” Jon seemed to process that, a little slowly at first, and then, weak, and all at once: “am I dead, too?”

“I–” _Hell if I know._ He didn’t even know how _he_ was here. Tim’s eyes darted around the room, and the rise and fall of Jon’s chest. The movement that was still so strange after two days of just… nothing. “No. You’re alive. I think you’re alive.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered. He shifted, trying to sit up, maybe. Tim didn’t move to help him or stop him, because, well. He was a ghost. What was he supposed to do? “Why are _you_ here…?” Jon continued.

“A bloody good question…” Tim muttered. And then, a little louder. “Fuck if I know, Jon. _I_ didn’t come back. I was _wrenched_ back. I was with _Danny.”_ The look that passed Jon’s face, then, spurred him on even further. _Pity._ “I was minding my own goddamn _business,_ finally _dead,_ and suddenly I’m pulled away. Come back here, to you, because it’s _always_ you. You couldn’t even let me have the _one_ happiness I was permitted– no. No, let’s see how many _more_ times we can fuck Tim over.”

“I didn’t…”

“You _did!”_ Christ, he was angry. And he was _used_ to being angry, he’d been angry and bitter and hurt for so long that it had started to blur together. He couldn’t remember. But this was another level. A whole other level. “It’s always. _You._ _You_ invited me to work in the archives, _you_ dragged me into all of this, _you’re_ the Archivist, something about _you_ isn’t letting me _move on!_ Why won’t you let me move on, Jon?!"

It was Jon. It was always Jon. 

"I was… I was _finally_ out.” Glaring at Jon, just passively staring at Tim, wordless, while he word-vomited all of his _anger,_ wasn’t _helping._ Tim clenched his jaw and turned around. He’d rather stare out the window. Actually, he might actually crawl out it for real in a minute. “I was _finally_ out, Jon, because death is the _only_ way we get out. We… _I_ made that decision. Took that opportunity. I was… I was the _closest_ thing that I will ever have to being _home_ after I died.”

“I’m… sorry–”

_Jesus._ Forget the window. Maybe glaring at Jon wasn’t really helping, but he _needed_ him to hurt. He needed him to hurt the way Tim had been hurting– so he spun back to him again, blazing. (maybe he would burn himself out) _“No,_ you don’t get to _say that._ ‘Sorry’ isn’t fixing _anything!_ Send me _back,_ Jon. You send me back.”

“I…” Jon swallowed. He was looking worse. _(good,_ the bitter part of Tim remarked) “I don’t know how.”

“No. No. _You’re_ The _Archivist,”_ he said, jabbing his finger at him. “It’s your job to know. It’s _your_ job to _see–”_

“I’m not The Eye, Tim,” Jon interrupted. “I…” A look of apprehension, and then, quieter, “I don’t think I am, anyway…”

“You don’t– _think–_ goddammit.” He clenched his hands, and for a moment, thought it was kind of funny that he didn’t really have a tangible, physical form anymore, but he could still feel himself _shaking._ “Goddammit, Jonathan S– nevermind. Just– just  _forget it.”_

He shouldn’t be lecturing him now. Yeah, he knew. But he deserved it. He deserved to lecture him as much as Jon deserved to _be_ lectured, and Tim had never been shy on letting him know that. So that hadn’t changed. But he was… tired. Tired in a way that he didn’t think he could actually _be,_ now, and he was tired of watching Jon watching him. He was tired of… he was just tired.

Jon probably was, too. It gave Tim an excuse to end the conversation. “Go back to sleep,” he ordered, brooking no argument.

For once in his life, Jon just… listened.

It was probably a fluke, given how sick and tired Jon looked, but Tim took the small victory, anyway. Because that was all he had left. Again. Small victories.

  


“– don’t feel _inhuman,_ or… I want to say I’m the same. But I don’t… really know if that’s true. I _know_ I’m different. I feel… more real, somehow?”

“What does that _actually_ mean?”

Jon sighed. From across the room, tucked into a corner (it was safer) Tim mirrored the motion. “Probably nothing good.”

Six months. It had been… _six months._ Jon had been in a coma for six months, and Tim had been _dead_ for six months. Six months that had felt like maybe six minutes in… Heaven or wherever the hell he’d been. _Six. Months._

“My turn. What happened to me?”

“How much do you remember?”

“I don’t… er– music. Everything was wrong? And Gertrude was there, and then… dancing? I think. Then pain. And I was somewhere else. Dreaming.”

“Dreaming?”

“Y–Yes.” Jon gnawed at his lip, and flicked his eyes to the corner Tim was haunting. “Y– You’re sure, a– about Tim…?”

_I’m dead, Jon. Get it through your head. I’m dead. I’ve been dead. For six months. I’m dead._

“Yeah,” Basira said. “They, um, they found his remains a few days later.”

… it was still weird, though. _Yes,_ he knew he was dead. Yes, he was okay with that. But hearing it from people who were very much _alive,_ talking about his… likely charred up, blown to bits corpse… it was still a little jarring.

Amazing. How could _anything_ still bother him at this point?

_Because it’s your bones they’re talking about, not some forgotten victim tucked away in the archives, you dumbass._

Jon was looking at him again. Tim finally zeroed in on his gaze, a little confused, a little… inquiring, he guessed. Tim shrugged, just a little.

“What do you keep looking at?” Basira asked sharply, and Tim looked at her even though _she_ couldn’t see him.

“Nothing… nothing. And– And Daisy…?”

It was all a little jarring, really. Tim listened mutely, had listened to Georgie and Basira about the tape recorder, and about Jon being unconscious for six months, and seethed while Jon worked on a statement and _progressively got better_ through the recording, and he listened as they talked about his own death and Elias and Peter Lukas and _Martin_ and Daisy…

So much had been happening. Of course the world kept moving, even without him. He hadn’t expected any different. But it had kept moving without _Jon,_ too.

Tim… wondered what that meant. If anything.

The door swung shut behind Basira, and Jon scrubbed at his eyes. When he dropped his hands, hair tousled and world weary again, he was immediately back to staring at Tim.

Fair. He was probably trying to figure out if he’d gone crazy. Tim was kind of wondering the same thing, but then, he was _dead,_ so he didn’t think his mental stability mattered, in this in-between state.

“I’m not getting you tea,” Tim intoned, because he couldn’t and he wasn’t in the mood to have done, _anyway,_ if he could. He just crossed his arms, and slid a little further down where he’d propped himself against the wall.

Jon laughed once. Dry. “No…” he murmured, and finally turned the damned tape recorder off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the saga of bitter Tim continues, but hey, at least he has someone to talk to now!
> 
> thanks for the support on this idea?? I'm honestly shocked and thrilled! I just. couldn't let Tim go. an awesome side-effect that no one else wants to either?? :D


	3. Chapter 3

“Welcome back, Tim.”

The noise that came out of his mouth was a little… well, he hadn’t expected to be _spoken_ to. That hadn’t been happening. Jon was the only one who could see him. The only one who could interact with him at all.

“Who–” He spun around, sorting through the bustle of people moving through the Institute. None of them noticed him, and Jon had already gone ahead without noticing anything amiss. “Who said that.”

Being able to leave the hospital was a… relief. Once Jon had woken up, Tim had found he was able to leave the room. So you couldn’t tell him this _wasn’t_ something tied to Jon. That _he_ wasn’t tied to Jon. Anyway, it wasn’t like there had been anything to _see_ through the rest of the hospital. And he couldn’t _talk_ to anyone. The only good part of visiting a hospital was talking to the nurses, and well. The best he could do was walk through them and give them a chill. Lots of fun. Better than staying in the room while they poked and prodded at Jon like he was some miracle man. That was one word for it.

So now he could stray from Jon’s side, somewhat. Not enough. He’d been having to stay at _Jon’s_ , more or less. He spent most of his time outside, dozing through the night, or whatever the hell it was he _did_ instead of sleep. Meditated? He didn’t know. Anyway, now it was… back to the Institute. Of _course_ back to the Institute. He’d rather be confined to the hospital room.

“Peter Lukas.” The man just seemed to appear out of nowhere. Short, portly, three piece suit… odd. Just odd. “I’m your new boss. Oh, sorry, I suppose I should say I’m _Jon’s_ new boss. The Head of the Institute.”

“… right.” He’d heard them talking, at the hospital. Peter Lukas, having taken over after Elias had been _arrested,_ and apparently dragging Martin along by a string on some plan no one knew the details of. And he remembered some statements. And Tim just had that niggling, uneasy feeling that something was _off,_ in a way he hadn’t been able to notice when he was alive. In the same way that Oliver Banks had felt, but… different.

Tim didn’t pretend to understand. He just raised an eyebrow as Peter offered his hand, and kept speaking.

“I am sorry that we won’t have the opportunity to work together properly, Tim. I was much looking forward to working directly with you.”

“Were you really?” he intoned.

“Oh, very! You and Martin, and Basira and… Daisy. And Jon, of course.”

“Of course. You know I can’t _actually_ shake your hand, right?”

“I think you’ll find that you _can,_ as it stands.”

… stranger things had happened. And the man was actually standing here, having a conversation with him. In… in the middle of the lobby, where no one even seemed to _notice_ them taking up the space. Tim looked away from Peter’s outstretched hand, and at the few people still coming and going through the hall.

“They can’t see us, I assure you.”

He looked back.

“Shake my hand, Tim. I know we won’t be spending much time together, but it is a step towards being cordial, if nothing else.”

He didn’t _want_ to. He wanted to just about as much as he wanted to be here at all, whether it was talking to Peter Lukas or Elias or _any_ of them. But when had that mattered? He wouldn’t _be_ here if he was allowed to do what he wanted. So, with a short sigh, Tim reached to take Peter Lukas’s hand.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when he actually _could_ shake his hand. It did, anyway, something like dread flooding into his veins.

“There are we,” Peter said.

“Who are you.”

“Peter Lukas, as I’ve said–”

_“What_ are you,” Tim interrupted, tightening his grip on Peter’s hand to pull him a step forward.

“Oh, well. That’s slightly more difficult, now isn’t it?” Peter smiled. He pulled his hand away and continued as though this were a _normal conversation._ “But you’ll have bigger things to worry about, I’m sure. What with taking care of Jon and everything.”

_Taking care of Jon._ Tim scowled, scrubbing his palms on his trousers. “What does _that_ mean?”

Peter paused, looking up at Tim with something like confusion. Maybe it was fake. It didn’t seem like it, though. “It… it means what I said?”

“Is that a _threat?”_ he hissed.

“Goodness, no, I just meant–” Peter stopped, and then peered a little… closer. Tim found himself taking a step _back_ this time, and Peter carried on after a moment. “Do you really not know?”

“Know _what?”_

The old, familiar anger was coming back. Standing here, in the Institute again. This place did things to you. He didn’t _care_ what Peter Lukas had to say. He didn’t _care_ about Peter Lukas at all, but his palms were starting to itch, aching to _punch_ him, the longer they stood there. Maybe if only because it seemed like Peter Lukas was the only one he actually _could_ punch, right now. And he had a _lot_ of unresolved feelings he wanted to work out, right about now.

“That you’re Jon’s guardian angel.”

He stopped dead. (Interesting choice of phrase, these days.) Not that he’d been going anywhere, not like he could, but… his thoughts stopped. Halted, hung up on the words, because… he wasn’t hearing what he was hearing. There was _no way._

_“What?”_ he hissed, but it came out without the vehemence behind it because… what?

“Did you really not know?” Peter blinked. “I assumed that was why you were so quick to throw your physical life away to protect him during the Unknowing.”

“No, I… _no._ I didn’t do it for _him.”_ He… hadn’t, had he? No, it had been his _own_ choice; he’d done it for himself, and he’d done it for _Danny–_ right? “I just–”

“Good Lord, and Elias used to boast about how intelligent his archival staff was. Why else did you think you happened to be wrenched back from the in-between with your dear, dead brother, _just_ in time for Jonathan to wake up?”

Because he’d thought it was an… Archivist thing. An Institute thing. An _Eye_ thing, _any_ thing _,_ not because he was… he _couldn’t_ be a guardian angel. He was very, _very_ far from, and had been for some time. And Jon was _not_ his friend. He hadn’t been for a long time. They had never really been… friends to begin with. There had been no love lost.

“You…” Tim raised his head. _“You_ did this?”

“No. No, no, not really my area,” Peter said. “I don’t really focus on the bonds between people. You’d have to talk to someone else about that.”

_“Who?”_ he demanded.

“Huh. I’m not actually sure, to be honest. Never really thought about it. Never really cared.”

“Don’t– don’t play _stupid–”_

“Is this the part where I’m meant to say that I’m not playing?” Peter smiled easily, and then cocked his head towards the upstairs floor. “Ah, you’ll have to excuse me, Tim. I’ve a friend waiting in my office.”

“No, wait.” This was all spiraling _so_ far out of control. Even more than it had been when he’d been _alive._ He didn’t know if he could keep taking these secrets. These surprises. The ones he didn’t want, when he was just meant to be _done._ “Wait just a goddamn second–” he started, but Peter was just… gone.

”Oh _shit.”_

What was he even supposed to _do_ with that knowledge? That he was Jon’s _guardian angel?_ He didn’t _want_ to be. He did _not_ want to be. He didn’t want to… what, _protect_ him? How _could_ he, anyway? He was a _fucking ghost._ He couldn’t do _shit._ If he wanted to. And he. didn’t. want. to.

Not Jon.

_Why_ Jon.

… of course Jon.

“Shit!”

He didn’t want it to be Jon. He didn’t want to be _here._ But he was. So he had to let that bit go for now. He had to _try,_ so he could instead focus on figuring out how the hell he was supposed to _get out of this._ And figuring out what the _hell_ he was supposed to tell Jon.

… nothing. He could tell him exactly _nothing,_ because… Tim didn’t need it. Couldn’t afford it. And– The Unknowing didn’t count– he had never agreed to protect Jon. He had never signed on to save his life. All he had signed up for, in past weeks, was to end his own. He hadn’t even managed that, really, so why was he expected to protect the life of the man he _hated?_

He wasn’t. He couldn’t. So he was telling Jon _nothing._

Jon didn’t deserve the truth. Jon didn’t deserve _him._

_Tim_ didn’t deserve this, either. But…

If wishes were horses, they’d all be knee deep in shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > **_And the angels who did not keep their positions of authority but abandoned their proper dwelling— these he has kept in darkness, bound with everlasting chains for judgment on the great Day - Jude 1:6_ **
> 
>   
> peter voice: what a bunch of stupid fucks
> 
> sorry tim


	4. Chapter 4

Tim told him. Of _course_ he did.

Partially because he only had _Jon,_ and apparently _Peter,_ to talk to, and he knew absolutely which one he hated more. Which one he trusted less. And partially because if he had to suffer through the knowledge, then by God, Jon had to, too.

“I… I’m sorry, what?” Jon asked, hand still held aloft above the recorder. He looked as stunned as Tim had felt, and, yeah, he'd admit that he was getting a tiny bit of satisfaction from it. If Tim’s world was being turned upside-down, Jon’s was going to be, too.

“Your new asshole boss told me. Peter Lukas.”

“You– wait, you met him?”

“Yeah.” He scoffed. “In whatever way that was. He’s not… he’s not _human.”_

“I…” Jon swallowed, pulling his hand back. He folded them on the desktop instead, and frowned towards the tape. At least it wasn’t running. A small miracle. “I had assumed. I think he’s… I think he’s part of The Lonely.”

“And…” Christ, that made sense. “And Martin’s working with him.”

“Evidently.”

“Oh… _stupid,”_ he muttered. If he needed irrefutable proof that Martin was still _their_ Martin, that was it. Because only _their_ Martin, so hopelessly _devoted,_ would end up working with the Entity that embodied the fear of being alone. “Martin.”

“I think that’s my fault,” Jon said quietly.

Tim shot him a filthy look. “Well done, boss, _that_ was never in question. This is _all_ your fault. Don’t forget.”

Jon made a noise, something like a cross between a choked laugh and a sigh. “I doubt you’d let me.” Then, raising his voice, “but you mentioned, um, y–you’re…”

“Your guardian angel,” Tim said dryly. “How lucky for me.”

“What does that… but… what does that even _mean?”_

“You tell me.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“You know everything.”

“I _really_ don’t. There’s… there’s _stuff?”_ Jon frowned, looking past him. “There’s… things are different,” he settled. “Since I woke up. I can… _feel_ more. _Know_ more. But it’s still… I _try_ not to, because it’s a _lot.”_

They’d known– or, well, _he’d_ known, at least– that this was endgame. That Jon would eventually lose his humanity, if he’d ever had any to begin with. Tim still didn’t really know. And he didn’t know what that meant for Jon in the future, anyway. Nothing good? Losing the parts of himself that gave him emotional connection?

Was that why Gertrude had been the way that _she_ had been, so distant and willing to risk it all? Had Tim appreciated her _because_ she hadn't been human, and not being human was the only way to _handle_ the kind of bullshit being thrown at them?

But he’d also long since accepted, however begrudgingly, that Jon was not Gertrude, and would never _be_ like Gertrude. And that was why he had taken matters into his own hands at the Unknowing. Why he had planned to even before going to the damn circus. Jon was… _soft._ Human.

But when he spoke like that, Tim thought maybe he was becoming more like Gertrude, after all. It, after everything, was an _odd_ concept.

“And– And who knows about _angels,_ anyway?” Jon continued. “I didn’t even think they _existed.”_

“Because, after _everything else,”_ Tim muttered, _“angels_ are where we draw the line.”

“Supernatural beings that appear to us aren’t usually _good.”_

He held up his hands. “Fine, but don’t ask me. Out of the two of us, I’m _less_ likely to know anything about religion.”

“And I do?” he muttered, and then, raising his voice, “I guess– I guess you’re meant to… watch over me? Protect me?”

“Oh, _goody.”_

“Guide me…? Like I need something else influencing my choices–”

“I’m _not_ interested,” Tim interrupted. “So you don’t need to worry about it.”

“Can you… do that, though? Shirk your–”

“Duty?” Tim laughed. It was hollow. He felt hollow. “Sure. Watch me.”

Jon’s forehead creased in consternation. Or… _worry,_ maybe, which made Tim’s stomach churn in all kinds of annoyed ways. “Tim…”

The knock at the door was a relief. Tim took a step back on instinct, and then turned away from that annoying look on Jon’s face to retreat back to the corner of the office.

 

“So… there’s nothing else Terrance could have been witness to except The Slau–”

“I’m _not_ here to talk statements,” Tim interrupted. Sharp, and cold, because he was _tired_ of statements, and he wasn’t _working._ He was _stuck._ He was Jon’s _guardian angel._ He wasn’t his _assistant._ He didn’t _care._

“… right.” Jon looked back at his laptop. “Right, you’re just going to sit there and stare into space, then?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m going to do.”

Jon sighed sharply.

“Hey, boss, you said you didn’t want _outside influence._ Don’t look at me for your answers.” A tiny prickle of _feeling,_ something like a joke at the periphery of his mind. _Unless you’re going to start praying to me._ He didn’t say it out loud.

“I’m not, I’m just… talking.”

_“Talk,_ then. You talk to yourself plenty without me.” His eyes slid to the recorder. “What do you think it sounds like on the tapes, anyway? Spooky shit aside, it probably doesn’t pick up _my_ voice.”

“I…” Jon looked between the recorder and Tim. “… didn’t think about it, really.”

“Amazing.”

“Sorry, it’s just a bit hard to remember that you’re not _actually_ here–”

“Bit hard to remember I’m dead, is it?”

“– with your _attitude_ still being the same and all–”

“Upset I didn’t lose that part of me, too, then?”

_“No!_ I–”

The silence made Tim look up more than anything. The anger was still pumping through his veins, but the look on Jon’s face was… odd. Distant, confused, and then…

“… the bullet,” Jon mumbled.

The non-sequitur threw the rest of his irritation effectively off. “The _what?”_

“The bullet… it’s been pumping violence into her the whole time… that’s… that’s part of the reason she’s…” Jon stood up, chair scraping back against the hardwood. “I’ve got to find Basira.” He pushed away the recorder and left it there, hurrying around the desk.

“No, _wait.”_ His hand went through Jon’s arm, _of course,_ and Jon didn’t even seem to notice the cold. Or he didn’t care. He definitely didn't stop. “Jon. What are you talking about?”

“The bullet. The one Melanie got when she was shot in India.” His voice was high and breathy. Tim had to pick up the pace to fall into step next to him. “It’s part of The Slaughter itself, it’s the reason she’s been so violent lately.”

“Or maybe she just _hates_ you,” he pointed out.

“Maybe, that too. But they were _war ghosts,_ Tim. It _fits._ She said the hospital couldn’t find any signs of the bullet, but if it’s still in there– and it has to be in there– then it’s continually making her _worse.”_

“And you’re going to… what, cut it out of her yourself?” he asked incredulously. Jon didn’t reply, and that silence was… it was his answer. “Oh Christ, Jon.”

“I’m the only one who can.”

“You’re not a _doctor!_ You don’t even know _where–”_

“I do.”

“You–”

“I… I think I will. It’s a… feeling.”

“A _feeling._ A spooky one.”

Jon flashed him something that might have been a look of disdain, the kind the _old_ Jon might have given him for a particularly badly-done job in the past. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “Yes, a _spooky_ feeling– oh, Basi– Basira! I need to talk to you!”

 

The plan was a stupid one. And definitely _not_ foolproof, but Tim just kept his mouth shut on the matter because this was _Jon’s_ idea. Jon’s idea, and Basira was going along with it, and Tim wasn’t in this dimension, _anyway,_ so what did it matter to him? And… assuming it _would_ help Melanie… that mattered.

Funny; his general distrust of the four of them– Jon included– had disintegrated since his death. Then again, maybe it was just _logical._ It wouldn’t affect him if they were traitors, at this point. All he was doing now was just standing by and _watching._ It didn’t affect him. It couldn’t.

Anyway, he might not have trusted himself to open his mouth, had he been _alive._ Two years at the Institute with all of the worms and spiders and body horror, so on, so forth, had torn most traces of squeamishness from him. But there was still something about _surgery._ Amateur surgery, even if Jon just _knew_ where to inject and how to cut.

And the bullet felt… _he_ could feel it. Otherworldly. A pressure in his head, aching at his ears. The same way Peter made him feel, the same way the man in Jon’s hospital room had made him feel. Sometimes, how Jon’s voice during statements made him feel these days. Familiar, but definitely not _good._

Jon set it aside, and Tim just… stared at it. So there was no doubt it was something more, but something so… innocuous, as a part of The Slaughter… it shouldn’t surprise him, really, but… he guessed he just hadn’t been _dead_ long enough to be completely numb.

Melanie shrieked, then, pure terror and anger and _loathing,_ and despite being _very much_ dead, Tim swore he jumped a mile himself. _Terrifying._ Christ, she was terrifying.

_He_ moved out of the way. Jon didn’t. Not fast enough, anyway, and Tim watched with… some kind of morbid, horrified fascination as Melanie snatched the scalpel from the bed covers and started slashing. Basira got her arms, but not before the scalpel got Jon.

It went a bit… _weird,_ after that.

Jon had definitely been hurt. He was _bleeding,_ clutching at his arm as he scrambled away, and tripping over his own feet as he scurried for the door. Melanie was still screaming, about her leg and about Jon and other things Tim couldn’t make out. Basira was more or less managing to wrangle her away, supporting her weight while still ducking out of the way of the scalpel herself. The whole thing was a bit like a horror show, and it burned beneath Tim’s skin.

No. Something was _actually_ burning. Burning him, burning beneath a body that he didn’t really have anymore, incorporeal or whatever the hell he was, but… he was… _hot._ Too hot. _Agony._

Jon had already long fled the scene, hand clasped to his newest injury as he’d gone. There was blood on the bed sheets, and dotted on the floor. Tim had seen the knife go into skin; _his_ left shoulder burned in the same exact place Melanie’s scalpel had sank into Jon’s flesh, and Tim’s head felt like it was going to explode from the pain of it.

By the time the fire had spread to the rest of his body, he could feel the pull of flesh and sinew peeling away from his arm in the place Jon had been bleeding. And when that slicing arch of agony settled across his _chest,_ too, the same feeling, the same _ache and burn and tearing_ he’d felt on his shoulder, Tim wondered if he were dying for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, it's a whirlwind around here at the good ol magnus institute 🌪🌪🌪


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me first draw your attention to the fanart I've forgotten to link!!!! and follow [@emperiocism](https://twitter.com/emperiocism) because look at these Tims and Jons (and Peter)???
> 
> [Inspired by Chapter Two](https://twitter.com/emperiocism/status/1141175656610447360)   
>  [Inspired by Chapter Four](https://twitter.com/emperiocism/status/1143330702588620800)

Penance. 

That was the best guess he had.

He’d already mapped out the new scar, wide and arching, across his chest. He was still found himself staring at it, anyway. Healed over but still ugly all the same. It had only taken a matter of moments to heal, really. He wasn’t able to bleed, even his dimension, but it hadn’t stopped the _excruciating_ pain, and then, around about the time he was _certain_ his head was going to explode from the agony of it, the wound had… healed over. Same with the one on his arm– one he’d realized mirrored Jon’s scalpel injury to a tee– except the one on his arm had cleared up entirely. Only the one on his chest had scarred. 

The phantom ache there, at least, had gone on for days.

Jon hadn’t seemed to notice, though. That was good. Tim wasn’t precisely in a _sharing mood._

As far as explanations went, the best Tim could tell was that Jon had been injured on his watch, and he had paid his dues for not _stopping_ it. _Vengeance taken on him sevenfold,_ and all of that.

… he wasn’t religious. Everyone knew that story, though.

Yeah, he wasn’t telling Jon. It didn’t really matter.

But it did give him a reason to _totally_ blow up at him when he decided to _go into the goddamn cursed coffin._

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

“No one else is going to do it.”

“Did you stop to think that, oh, maybe no one _should?”_ Tim shot back, and then took a deep breath in hopes of counteracting that _look_ on Jon’s face. (Guilt. Sadness. World weary aching. The responsibility of protection on his shoulders.) He wanted to scream him into submission. He didn’t think that was going to work. So trying to be rational. Doing Jon’s thing. “I know you want her back, too–”

“We _need_ her back.”

“No, _you_ need her back.”

“Yes.” Jon ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face. He’d been saying he needed a haircut. Tim guessed he did. “Yes, Tim, that’s it. _That’s_ it; I am _tired_ of being _too late_ to save people, I’m _tired_ of losing everyone.”

“You can’t save _everyone,”_ Tim stressed. “Break a few eggs, that’s how–”

“You’re not an _egg,_ Tim.” Jon’s voice was all anger and irritation, fueled in a way Tim hadn’t heard from him in the past… he didn’t know. Awhile. “You…” Jon took a breath, and continued, a little more evenly. “You, and Sasha, and Daisy, you’re not _eggs_ to be broken. Martin, Basira, hell, even Melanie… God… I hope…” He sighed, and dropped back into his chair.

Tim watched dully as he put his face in his hands, and then spoke up again. “She’s still alive. Stop being defeatist, that was _my_ job.”

Jon laughed, just a breath of air stifled into his hands. “Look where it got you.”

“Well, I’m _still here.”_

“You’re dead.”

“Yeah. But doesn’t give _you_ leave to go diving pell-mell into _coffins.”_

He did scrub his hands against his eyes before dropping them, half defeated– but not enough, Tim could see it now– back on the desktop. “I thought you _weren’t_ advising me,” he said, and may have even… smiled, maybe.

“I’m _not._ I’m just telling you how much of a twat you’re being, same as usual.”

It had definitely been a smile, because it was definitely an exhausted laugh, then. “And it’s never stopped me before. I…” He paused. Thinking. Tim braced himself for the worst. “I need to do more research.”

 

Somehow, the _worst_ was _worse_ than he’d braced for. 

He was just doing a daily wander of the perimeter outside the Institute. That was all. He went as far as he could, when he could, and while he wasn’t allowed to leave Jon for any _lengthy_ distance or time, never allowed far _enough_ away, he was getting further than he ever had. He guessed it had something to do with… how long he’d been back, or how long he’d been working with Jon again. Maybe the powers that be had decided he wasn’t going to bolt and had given him a longer leash.

A dog on a leash. Yep. That sounded about right.

So, he was doing that _walk,_ getting away from it all, and then the _burning_ started. The same from before, when Melanie had attacked. But it wasn’t his shoulder this time; it was his hand… no, a _finger._

“Shit–”

The one upside of being dead was all he had to do was think of Jon, and he was immediately _there,_ in his office, gasping in pain and _horror_ as he watched Jon drive the knife between the second and third knuckle of a finger.

_“Jon!”_

“Ah! Oh– T–Tim, you, ha.” Jon held his bloody hand behind his back, and looked at the knife. He’d dropped it when Tim had startled him. “I thought you weren’t listening, just then.”

“I don’t have to be _listening,_ I can just _feel it–”_ Jon was reaching for the knife, and the panic?– he wasn’t certain– burst out in a command if only to make Jon stop _hurting_ himself. Hurting the both of them. _“Don't.”_

When the knife went flying across the room on its own accord, Jon nearly fell over his chair, and even Tim, in a hilarious display of _old human instinct,_ went scrambling out of its path.

Well.

Jon wasn’t trying to chop off his finger anymore. He was staring at Tim instead, all wide-eyed in surprise and _shaking_ a little. His knees buckled. And then he had to sit down.

If Jonwas stunned, Tim was _completely_ flabbergasted. _He_ didn’t even need to stand, but he still slumped back against the wall to catch his… no, not catch his breath. To _process._ He wasn’t hurting anymore, and his _chest_ hadn’t started in, thank God. Jon wasn’t bleeding any longer and… Tim had just… telepathically punted a knife across the room.

“Was that… _you?”_

“I…” He laughed, humorlessly and _dry,_ because this wasn’t _funny._ It was _not_ funny. “Hell if I know. I guess.” Another peal of laughter. He wondered if he were losing it, after all. “All the stories of ghosts moving shit around in these old haunted houses never really seemed to be something _real,_ you know?”

“Yeah…” Now Jon was laughing. Just a little. Maybe they were _both_ out of their minds, feeding each other a fantasy that didn’t truly exist in any realm. What the hell was happening to them. “Well, I guess we’re _both_ getting stronger, then, Tim,” he said, voice muffled by the hand that wasn’t bloody.

“Fan _tastic.”_

Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe it was _good._ Maybe it was one step closer to accomplishing his goal… _their_ goals. Whatever they were. Wherever they overlapped, these days. He didn’t know.

It was still a lot to process. Vaguely, he wondered if this was what it felt like to Jon, to know you were losing your humanity. But it didn’t really count. Their situations were… too different.

“But you said… you said you could _feel_ it?” Jon asked, eventually, just sort of staring at his bloodied finger. “Feel my pain?”

“… yeah.” So much for not telling him that, either. Maybe secrets weren’t a thing anymore, either. But he still didn’t have to give him the _extent_ of the knowledge, so he wouldn’t. “Whatever hurts you, hurts me. Like that scalpel.” He glanced at Jon’s shoulder. “Or your knife.”

“You… didn’t mention.”

“Yeah. Didn't make a difference.” He shrugged. “It’s not normal pain. It’s not _human_ pain, but it still hurts like hell because, best I can tell, if I don’t actively try to stop _whatever_ from hurting you, I have to pay the piper since it _is_ my job to keep you safe.”

“Oh…”

“Even if that means protecting you from yourself.” There were more important things than the conflicted look on Jon’s face. “Why were you trying to chop off your goddamn finger to begin with?” Tim demanded, and he tried to put as much discomforted anger into as possible, but he was still pretty shook up himself.

“I…” Jon cleared his throat, looked sheepish. At least there was that, _after trying to chop off your goddamn finger._ “I had an idea. I need an anchor, for The Buried.”

Oh, _God._ This again. This _still._

“I’m going _in,_ Tim, that’s not up for debate. I’d like to come back _out,”_ Jon interrupted. “So I figured, I need something here in this realm, something _important_ that I can find my way back to? And the best I’ve got is just… a part of myself.”

“So you just decided to lop off your own finger.”

“Well… yeah.” Jon held up his hand. “But you can see it’s still _very_ much attached. It keeps _healing._ Everything just… pieces back together the moment I take the knife out.”

“Maybe a sign you _shouldn’t_ lop off your finger.”

“A sign that I probably _can’t,”_ Jon muttered. “But I still need _something…”_

Tim stopped listening. He had his own idea. He didn’t _like_ it. He didn’t like the idea of Jon doing this at all– what it meant for Jon, what it meant for himself. Himself, especially, what with the uncertainty of what ‘death’ meant to him nowadays. And Jon didn’t just get to bow out, after all of this, by throwing his life away. Even if _he_ couldn’t die, either, these days, but Tim wasn't actually so keen on testing that theory out.

“… me,” Tim muttered. He raised his voice to continue. “If I’m tethered to you, you’re tethered to me. I doubt anything’s going to be stronger than the shit show we're living now.”

Jon looked back at him. He looked… surprised, maybe, by the suggestion, and then seemed to almost _marvel_ over it. Looking overly thoughtful about it. “You’re probably right, but I think I need… I think I need something _physical?_ To leave behind and find my way back to.”

“So go to my place.” Tim shrugged. “Grab something of mine.”

“Your… I think it’s all gone, probably?”

“Oh, right.” Eight months did that. “What happened to the stuff at my desk?”

“I’m… not sure. I could ask Basira. It’s probably… _here,_ somewhere. Unless you had someone…?”

“No one,” Tim interrupted, blunt. Family. Not really his thing, after Danny. Meaningful relationships, not his thing, either. There was no one to give his stupid work trinkets to. There never had been. It had stopped bothering him a long time ago. More or less.

“Right,” Jon said. “I’ll ask her, then. Is there anything in particular…?”

He hadn’t had much, here. An old family photo he kept tucked away in the drawer. A mug from Martin, printed with _don’t you wish your coffee was hot like me?_ from the Christmas exchange. Whatever candy of the week he’d been feeling. Specific kinds of tea. A stress ball– useful for launching at people in the throes of boredom, or imagining that it was Elias’s face. Spare change. His laptop. Magazines. Notepad. Sketchbook– oh. There was that. 

“There’s a book,” he said, shortly. It didn’t matter any more. It really didn’t. “About this big, leather cover, elastic band. You can take pages from the inside, too, if you think it’ll help.”

“What is it?”

“Old sketchbook.” Tim shrugged. It had never been anything he’d been able to properly refine, never had the time, or the energy, in the past couple years. He’d stopped caring, towards the end. But it had been a hobby, once upon a time. One that he figured he was going to regret sharing, if Jon was going to continue looking at him in open surprise like that.

“I didn’t know you were an artist.”

“I'm _not._ I used to sketch. A little. They’re not _good,_ but assuming you don’t need to get back from wherever you’re going based on my artistic talent alone…”

“No, no, I think… I think that’ll be fine.” Jon looked prime to say something, something else about his hobbies or his life or his fate.

Tim didn’t know. He didn’t think he wanted to hear it, anyway. So he said, “wash your hands, first,” instead, nodding at the bloody (healed) mess of Jon’s fingers and palm. “Before someone else asks what you were doing.”

“Good point.” A tiny laugh, and Jon stood. “I’ll go. Fingers crossed your stuff’s still here, I suppose.”

_Fingers crossed._ Tim didn't remark on the wording. Instead, he simply echoed “I suppose,” and left it at that. He wasn’t really worried. If _he_ could still be here after eight months, he was sure something of his was floating around in the void somewhere here, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gives Tim redeeming qualities and lil hobbies to torture myself more. anyway this chapter punches for reasons you guys won't know for awhile but let me just say. it does punch, and it hurts like hell


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re _really_ going to take the ones of you? _Really?”_

“Maybe it’ll help me… keep my sense of self?” Jon glanced at Tim, and then carefully– too carefully, considering no one would be using that sketchbook again– tore out the page he’d stopped on. “It’s a good likeness.”

It almost sounded like Jon was screwing with him. Which was patently _weird,_ since Jon didn’t screw with anyone. But if there were ever a prime opportunity to take the piss from someone, it would be finding your face in their personal sketchpad.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said. Even if this wasn’t Jon’s brand of _teasing,_ Tim really was regretting bringing him to it. “I sketched everyone in the archives for awhile. Even Elias. Facial studies are _good_ practise.”

“It’s good, honestly.” Jon folded up the page of Tim’s drawings of himself, and tucked it into his pocket. “You’re… you were,” he clarified, softly, “good. Even if you tore the bad ones out,” he added, fingers passing over a jagged else of a torn page before he shut the book.

“I didn’t–” He owned his failures. And anyway, there really _weren’t_ any failures in practise. “… those were meant to be Sasha.” 

He heard Jon breathe in sharply.

“Afterwards, after all of it. It was meant to be Sasha. _Our_ Sasha, except I couldn’t _remember…_ I couldn’t. Kept going back to the other one. So, yeah. I trashed it. Didn’t feel right, keeping the imposter in there.”

“God, Tim, I’m–”

“Don’t say ‘sorry.’ I don’t want it.”

“I’m…” Fingers drummed against the desk. One tap. Two. Then Jon nodded. “I’m– yeah. I know. I know.”

“I know, too.” 

He was still _angry_ at him. At The Archivist. Tim didn’t think it would change. He didn’t think it _could_ change. Basically, he still hated him. Hated everything he’d caused, intentionally or not. Hated that he was stuck to him, now, again, _still._ Tim didn’t know how to let that go. He didn’t think he possessed the ability to.

But Jon was _different,_ when he wasn’t holding himself to Archivist standards. When he let his guard down, when he talked a bit to himself and reminisced on early days in the archives. When he took his glasses off to rub at his eyes or when he woke up thrashing in the middle of the night.

Months ago, Tim would have paid actual money  _not_ to see Jon in a vulnerable state. It would have just pissed him off even more. Now, he didn’t have much choice on the matter, and it was just… he didn’t know. _Resigning_ him, he guessed.

Or maybe he was just giving him a break, since he was about to do something completely _moronic._

“Right… if I don’t come back–”

“You’d better come back,” Tim interrupted. “You’d better come back. Either that or actually _die,_ Jon, so help me. If _you_ get _stuck…”_

“Then you’re stuck, too. I know.” Jon shoved the recorder in his pocket. “Trust me, I’m really not keen on getting stuck in a place called _Too Close I Cannot Breathe.”_

It didn’t sound ideal. Tim shivered minutely, and shoved the thought aside. He wasn’t claustrophobic. He wasn’t, but who _really_ wanted to muck about in a coffin? No matter _what_ was in it, where it led… the thought made his lungs ache, and he didn’t even have to _use_ them.

“And I’m tired of having people’s blood on my hands.” Jon glanced back. “Even if you can’t bleed anymore.”

“Cute.”

“Right then… thank you, Tim.”

Another tight, unpleasant squeeze somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. Tim pushed that away, too. “Right.”

Jon breathed in slowly, turning to look at the coffin. Oppressive and… heavy on the eardrums, like all the creepy stuff was these days. Jon probably couldn’t hear it. Tim didn’t want to, either. He saved him the trouble of _telling_ him how it felt to him, how he knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. It didn’t matter, because Jon was taking a breath to steel himself, and then raising a dismissive hand in a goodbye wave. “Wish me luck.”

He wanted to say anything else. He wanted to revert to the sarcasm he used to cover up whatever was _too damn much_ for him to process. Even the anger was preferable to panic. Preferable to fear. Preferable to _hope._

“… good luck,” he said instead.

Jon went. And it was just _Jon_ that he looked back, just for a moment, before the coffin swallowed him out of sight.

_Come back. Come back. Make sure to come back._

Tim finally exhaled, without realizing he’d been… not breathing again. It didn’t help. Not really. If Jon didn’t come back, he _was_ stuck. He didn’t know what that meant for him. If _he_ failed, did he get to go back to… wherever he’d been? Would Danny be waiting? Would he _ever_ be free of all of this?

And if Jon didn’t come back, no one would be going in to find _him._ If Jon didn’t come back, he was lost forever, too.

… it didn’t matter. It didn’t. He kept saying Jon _deserved_ this. Jon had made his choices. Even not making a choice _had_ been a choice, whether today or two and a half years ago. Even his little choices had set off shockwaves. Even if he hadn’t known. Jon had to pay for those decisions. Jon… owed that to them, to all of them. Jon… had to come back, though. He had to.

Tim sighed sharply, shoving his hands through his hair. He had to find something else to do in the meantime. He hadn’t wanted to sit by Jon’s bedside, and he absolutely did not want to sit by his tomb.

 

“Dammit. _Dammit,_ Jon, you– Melanie! Melanie, when did you last see Jon?!”

Come back just in time to find Jon having thrown himself off on his own foolhardy plan, Tim thought, watching Basira rush out of Jon’s office again. Yep. Sounded about right. She couldn’t have been surprised. Jon did stupid things when he was unsupervised.

 Even when he was supervised, but Tim _wasn’t_ giving advice.

He wasn’t doing well, though. Staring at the coffin, inevitably drawn back to it, because where else would he end up except back to where Jon was? It had been a little over ten hours at this juncture, and he was… ugh. _Not. Well._

He shuddered.

The shitty thing was that he didn’t _know_ what it would feel like if Jon died. Probably not good. If standing by without interfering when he got hurt got him a scar on his chest, Jon’s death would… probably be pretty damn obvious. But this felt like… sickness, maybe. Getting the flu, or coming off of it.

What was the point in being dead if he could still feel like this? Jesus.

Basira brought Melanie back, replaying the tape, the final apologies Jon had left behind in case he _didn’t_ make it back.

Still shivering, Tim saw himself out.

 

A day and a half in felt… _bad,_ and he knew something had gone horribly wrong.

It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t that, wasn’t the same kind of burning ache he was getting used to if he didn’t stop Jon being hurt. Just… something _wrong._  

He’d been feeling worse, yeah, a little more sick every day. Or… weak, since sick wasn’t a thing for him. Sticking closer to the coffin was a little bit of a relief. As much as it was even _more_ unsettling to sit next to the thing. 

But a little over a day in, Tim just sort of… _lost_ Jon. He couldn’t describe it. It was just… something _missing,_ and he only had _Jon,_ so it had to be Jon. And it felt… yeah, _bad._ Really bad. As in, he hadn’t gotten that kind of feeling since the day Danny had disappeared. And Tim definitely didn’t want to think about that.

He didn’t want to think about it, because _Danny_ had never come back, and hopefully this feeling wasn’t implying _Jon_ would never come back.

But who was he kidding. This was the Magnus Institute. _Feelings_ weren’t just coincidence, and he didn’t _need_ to think about it.

At this juncture, he already knew what that feeling meant. Jon wasn’t coming back.

And that thought was utterly terrifying.

He could _feel_ The Choke. Feel what Jon had been feeling, to probably a lesser degree. But the press of… space around him, and the scent and taste of earth on his tongue. Maybe it was in his head. Part of it definitely was. The imagined idealization of what it was like to be _buried alive._ But the sensation was gripping at his chest anyway, pressing down on it, squeezing the air right out of his lungs. He was hyperventilating before he knew it.

Something was wrong. Something was so terribly wrong. 

Jon had lost his anchor. Lost Tim. Wherever he was, whatever was happening in there… they were disconnected, and Jon would never find his way back without _something_ to guide him. 

That was scary. No, it was fucking _terrifying,_ The Buried and The End, hand in hand, and Tim couldn't _breathe._

It took him a few, _long_ minutes, curled where he'd slumped into Jon's chair, to remember he didn't _have_ to breathe. And just like that, it stopped. He could still feel the press of imagined weight on his chest, and the crush of it squeezing his diaphragm, but those things didn't matter to him. He didn't have to breathe. _Right._ Dumbass.

His eyelashes were wet. He kept _not_ breathing and tried to pull himself together. There weren't contingency plans. There were just goodbyes, and whatever was going to happen to him when he was away from Jon. 

God. His chest hurt. Not in the injury way. Yet. Maybe that was good. Or maybe it was just different, because The Buried was an Entity and Jon was in its realm, and Tim wasn’t. He didn’t know. He rubbed his eyes and lifted his chin, half tucked in a measure of self defense as he'd more or less tried to curl into a ball. Maybe he ought to be happy part of his humanity was still there, but right then, he really wished it wasn't. 

Humanity was too goddamn painful, and far, _far_ too fragile. 

"Something's not right."

The voice at the door made him cringe. Just Basira, standing with arms crossed, staring into Jon's office. Staring at his desk. Staring at Tim, although eye contact had stopped being alarming a weeks ago. 

"What do you mean?" Melanie's voice was still in the hall. Still guarded. "Something's changed?" 

"No." 

"Then what." 

"I… I thought I heard something."

"From the coffin?" 

"No."

"Where?" 

"… I'm not sure." Basira was _still_ looking at him, and Tim was strangely pinned to the spot. "Maybe my imagination."

"Except it's not."

"Except it's not." 

“… need to keep a closer eye in here,” Basira said, when she stepped in, Tim finally, _finally_ vanished out to escape for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, he couldn't have gone with him 😔 ~~and he probably wouldn've offered to begin with~~
> 
> also I can't remember if they said if they ever got the capacity back to remember _their_ Sasha but it's so much more tragic this way, and I like it


	7. Chapter 7

“God, Jon… you have to come back.”

He wondered how long Martin had been standing there. Tim had been… sleeping? It was closer to sleep this time. He… still wasn’t doing well. But Martin was there, in the doorway, looking awkward and pale and scared to death.

It must be late. Martin only ever showed very early or very late, when the other staff were gone or tucked away to sleep. And Tim could never see him in between. He thought that was Peter’s influence; Peter knew he’d be able to see, and he was making certain he couldn’t. Or something. Either way, for the time being, Martin’s plans were still a secret, and Martin’s presence was a bit of a shock.

“I know you… I know you can’t hear me. Peter said… well, it’s not good. This isn’t looking good… at all, Jon.” He wrung his hands, and took a step into the room. “He said you’d probably lost your anchor? And– And that that had been Tim’s _sketchbook,_ which… I’m _sure_ you had a reason, but if you can’t find it, anyway… Peter, he’s…” He sighed, hands shifting up to grip at his own arms. Holding himself together. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to help you find your way back.”

 _Likewise,_ Tim thought dully, and leaned his head back on the chair.

“There has to be something we haven’t… I–I mean, maybe Elias? God, I can’t believe I’m even _considering…_ But I don’t know what would tie you here, really. You don’t have _personal_ things? Which makes it rough. So we’re just left here _waiting…”_

He wondered if Jon had had personal things, if _that_ would have been better than Tim’s old crap. Maybe that had been a terrible idea. Maybe this was all his fault. But they _were_ tethered, and the only other thing that Jon had a preternatural connection to was his goddamn tape recorder, so– 

Tim sat up.

Maybe… _maybe._ Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Because he hated the tapes. He hated the recordings and he hated Jon’s… _dependence_ on them, but eerie as _they_ were, always popping up where _Jon_ was… but what could he do? He was a _ghost._ He couldn’t move things. The thing with the knife had been… new. A one-off, until he learned more about it. Right? Maybe if he focused. Effort, even if he was _tired._

“Martin. Get the tapes.” He stared at the one recorder, still sitting untouched on Jon’s desk since Basira had come back to find it. “Martin. I _really_ need you to open up your third ear and hear me right now. I _really_ need this thing to move.”

It was… not easy. He tuned out Martin rambling in the background and tried to focus on the tape recorder. On making it move. Or anything. But he _was_ tired, and he felt like shit. And he… really needed to get this idea into Martin’s head, right now. It had been too long as it was.

He thought maybe this really was it if Martin walked out, now.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ being a ghost. How am I supposed to save him if I can’t–” He jumped when the recorder clicked on. That… hadn’t been what he’d been aiming for, but it _worked!_ It was just enough influence to work _just_ enough.

It was quiet enough in the archives at night that Martin heard it, too. Or maybe they were just fine-tuned to that shit by now.

“Er–” Martin paused, mid-sentence, looking at the recorder. Then he took a step, hesitant, and another, and turned the recorder off.

“Yeah yeah yeah, spooky shit turning on by itself, I know it’s not a huge deal. _You_ want to save him, too, _think,_ Martin.”

There was a spare recorder in Jon’s desk. A spare to the spare Jon had taken with him. If this ended up being _useful,_ Tim might not complain about them again. A little exertion (a lot exertion) and another click from inside the drawer.

“Oh, God, how many’s he got in here–”

“Too many. Hopefully enough.” Tim dodged out of the office, to the recorder on the desk immediately in the hallway. That one had a tape, halfway through. The sudden statement in the dark and quiet even startled him.

Martin, too. _“Christ,_ okay, what am I– what do you _want_ with me??” He was quick to turn off the newest one, rather than look through Jon’s desk.

“Martin. The recorders,” Tim said quickly. “Think about it. They’re always around him. They’re _connected_ to him–”

“You miss him, too, huh…?” Martin murmured.

“Don’t _talk_ to the machine, Martin, just–”

Oh, but the look on his face, just at that moment. _Maybe_ it was a good one. Maybe it meant good things. But he looked… thoughtful, looking between the recorder clutched in his hand and Jon’s open doorway. Between the coffin and the recorder.

“Yeah, you’re getting there. Well done, Martin, now let’s just–”

Martin took off sprinting. Placing the two near the coffin. Throwing Jon’s drawers open until he found the spare. Darting back out to Basira’s desk for hers.

The right track. _Finally._ Maybe. _God._

Tim stood and watched, feeling weak in the knees, as Martin collected as many recorders as he could find. He hoped it worked. It _had_ to work.

“Don’t worry. We’ll bring him back,” Martin said.

If this worked, maybe, Tim wouldn’t complain about Martin talking to the tapes, either.

 

He was pacing the length of the room when Jon returned. He knew he was coming. He’d _felt_ it work, the tapes. Which was good. Really good. So he felt good enough to pace when Jon finally crashed his way out of the coffin… Daisy in tow.

Tim didn’t know what was more stunning. The fact that Jon _actually found his way back,_ or the fact that, after eight months, Daisy was still alive. Aware. _Conscious._ Pale and shaking, covered in filth, just like Jon was. But alive… they were both alive.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, wide eyed and… _relieved._ No other word. He couldn’t pretend.

“We’re back…” Jon smiled faintly. It was weak, and tired, a little lessened by the fact there was a look on his face that couldn’t be hidden away by the grime. But he looked up at Tim, still holding onto Daisy’s hand, and _grinned_ like an absolute madman. “Said we’d make it back.”

“You’re…” He didn’t know if the smile was contagious, or if it was just his own relief rushing in. Rushing _out,_ as he laughed, once, short and emotional. “You’re an _idiot,_ Jon.”

“I… I’ve been told.” Jon snickered. “I– we–” he trailed off, eyebrows furrowing as he looked away from Tim and then around the room. At the tape recorders.

“What? What’s wrong?” Daisy asked.

“The tapes… there must be dozens of them–”

“Jon!” The door was thrown open. _“You–”_ Basira stopped dead, eyes going to Daisy, _first_ Daisy, and it wasn’t the first time Tim had wondered if there was something going on there but it _really_ wasn’t the time for lesbian fantasies. She finally looked at Jon, and then Daisy again.

“… hi,” Daisy said quietly.

“… oh my God.”

Yeah. Tim shifted from foot to foot as he watched Jon sit up, slump back against the desk. Watching as Jon scrubbed his face, wiping away the earth and muck, before looking back at Tim again. Yeah, _oh my God_ pretty much summed it up.

Jon gave the same, tired smile, and Tim, so very relieved but _not_ encouraging this behavior, definitely not, this was his _guidance,_ gave him a halfhearted middle finger.

 

“I just want… I just want to give my official statement.”

“You _recorded_ the whole thing.”

“It’s different.”

“You were in there for _three days,_ Jon.”

“I’m just… a little dehydrated, maybe. A few bruises. They’ll heal in a minute.”

“It’s been more than a minute–”

“Go with Daisy. I’ll follow after my statement.”

 _“God._ Fine,” Basira said. “You’d better show up, Jon, so help me–”

“Go with Daisy,” Jon repeated, calm and stubborn. “I’ll be there before they know anything, I promise.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Jon wouldn’t go to the hospital, but then, Tim guessed Basira hadn’t really been an active participant on how Jon had acted after the Prentiss attack. Stupid. He’d acted stupid. He was acting stupid now, probably, not fifteen minutes after tumbling out of the coffin. He’d cleaned up a bit, changed into different clothes, but was still refusing to leave the archives on the ambulance with Daisy and Basira.

Tim found he didn’t care much, this time. “Are you _really_ doing a statement?” he asked. Basira had finally gone, and Jon shook his head.

“No. I did record it.” He looked up at Tim. “It’s been three days. Tell me what happened.”

“No, tell _me_ what happened. I felt you…” How did he say it without sound _pathetic?_ “… disappear.” There _wasn’t_ a different way. It all sounded terrible. “I felt you disappear.”

“I felt myself lose _you.”_

“Great. This is great. We sound _great,_ Jon.” Like a pining _couple_ or some shit. Jesus. “The tapes helped, then?”

“I… I didn’t feel _them,_ exactly?” Jon glanced at the small mountain of recorders, stacked haphazard on the top of the coffin. “I felt you, the sketchbook, the anchor. It… got further away. I stopped looking? I was, uh, ha, I was nervous to look? In case it wasn’t there. And then it wasn’t.” He shrugged. “Then it was, again, so if that corresponds with the tapes…”

“It was about ten hours ago.”

“Ten hou–” Jon stopped. “… right. It felt like maybe thirty seconds after I _felt_ it again, then we were out.”

“Trust me,” Tim said, “it was ten hours.”

“Right,” he repeated. For a second, it was that same look on his face. That same far away look of disbelief that any of this was happening, the look that _none_ of them could even make any claim to anymore. Not these days. But there were still… there were still things. Like this. Like The Buried, to make even _Jonathan Sims_ look that way. 

Made even more unsettling by the grime he hadn’t managed to scrub from his person, the pale skin and dark shadows under his eyes and unkempt, tangled hair falling about his ears.

Jon eventually continued. “Who… Who did the tapes?” 

“Martin.”

Jon looked back, sharp and calculating and… hopeful.

“Well, I… helped,” Tim clarified.

“You helped.”

“I… it’s _hard_ to do things in the physical world, Jon. The knife was a fluke–”

“– or you just don’t understand how to do it yet.”

 _“Or_ that. But I couldn’t… do much. I was sick, or the closest approximation of whatever _that_ is, since you weren’t here, and it was even more annoying to try and get anything to work. But I got some recorders on. Enough to get an idea into Martin’s head. He did the rest.”

“Oh… well… thank you.”

“Yeah. Guardian angel and all that,” he said, and it was only a little sarcastic. He was proud of that fact.

“Huh. Yeah. I mean– I’d tell Martin thank you, but… I doubt he wants to hear it,” he muttered. Then, he raised his voice, and continued with the question that was _obviously_ going to come. “How is he?”

Like he had that answer, even if he knew the question was coming. There wasn’t an answer. Not a good one, and not one Jon wanted to hear. “He’s not _right,_ Jon. I mean, he’s still _Martin,_ but he’s not.”

“No… he’s not.”

“And not in the same way that Sasha wasn’t Sasha.” It wasn’t that. He hadn’t noticed anything with Sasha. None of them had noticed anything with Sasha, but Martin was _obvious._ “Hell if I know. All I can tell is something isn’t _right.”_

“You haven’t… _seen_ what he’s up to…?”

“The only time I actually see him is when he’s doing random statements. Or making tea. Lukas is keeping me out otherwise, he has to be.”

“Right… he knows you can see things we can’t, so…”

“So he’s cutting me off,” Tim said. _Also, maybe don’t talk about me_ Seeing _things like I’m The Eye, because that’s a comparison_ _that makes me want to scream._ He didn’t say that part out loud. “I don’t know if it’s intentional, he’s doing it on purpose, or if it’s the fact that he’s The Lonely, but… yeah. Makes sense.”

"You said you were sick?" Jon asked eventually. He looked at him a little closer, up and down and intent like _compulsion._ Tim could _feel_ it. Feel it slipping over his skin like… like pulling a shirt on in the morning. The first touch of fresh fabric after a hot summer night. But not… claws. Not broken glass, dragging across his skin, urging him to answer. There _was_ no urge to answer, even though Tim could tell the compulsion _was_ there. 

That was interesting.

He answered, because he wanted to. "Evidently I can't be away from you," he said. Again, only a tiny bit sarcastic. "At least, not in the capacity of _The Buried."_

"And you were sick… how, exactly?" 

Tim found himself moving with the weight of the words, like that old worn t-shirt or cool water or the jukebox on a drunken night with their upstairs colleagues. _Good._ It was a good feeling. But then he twitched his lips towards a frown, because he was _aware_ of all that and he _shouldn't_ be. At least, not until after the fact. "Stop trying to compel me, it isn't _working."_  

Jon looked _surprised._ At being caught, he guessed, and then he laughed slightly and held up both hands, palms out. "Sorry. Just a thought I had in limbo." 

"Think again."

"I just need to know." 

"What, that this fucking _sucks?"_ But… he wanted to tell him. Not to guilt-trip him, not this time, just… it had been three days, and he missed _people._ He missed talking to people. He missed talking to Jon. Christ Almighty. "... but yeah," he said, quieter. "I was just… tired, I guess. Weak. Like coming off the flu is how I figured it. I felt your… I felt The Buried, for awhile, before I remembered I didn't need to breathe." 

 _"You_ felt The Buried." 

"And you can compel or _almost_ compel other Entities, so does that _really_ surprise you?" 

"... good point." 

Tim shrugged. "It's whatever. _Don't_ go into any more goddamn coffins, we'll call it even." 

"I think I can do that." 

His smile was… still wrong. Gaunt. Tired. Like he needed a week's worth of sleep, except Jon probably didn't _need_ sleep so much as he probably just _slept_ for the novelty of it. To keep as much of himself human as possible. 

Tim found himself wishing for the same thing. Sleep wasn't the same to him anymore, either. 

"... go to the hospital, Jon." 

“You know that’s not necessary.”

“Humor me. Humor _them.”_

Maybe Jon wasn’t physically hurt. Not really. Maybe he wasn’t even _dehydrated,_ like he'd claimed to Basira. Tim wanted him to go, anyway.

“I thought you _weren’t_ giving me advice,” Jon said. It was with just a little humor, but that was… good. Tired resignation. One of the things they had in common, these days.

“What can I say, Jon, I’ve missed the sound of my own voice the past three days.” _And yours,_ he didn’t say.

Jon laughed, soft and light and oddly comforting. Like the feeling of compulsion but _better,_ something else Tim wanted to lean into and indulge in.

… the past two months had been _lonely._ He wouldn’t admit that, either, but Martin? With the man he’d been pining for for over two years, not quite dead but in a coma for six months, and his own mother passing away? Yeah. His decision to work with _Peter Lukas_ couldn’t have come as much of a shock, at the time.

If Tim was staring– and he pretty much _was–_ Jon didn’t notice. Jon was almost as good at missing the obvious as he was at rushing into stupid decisions by himself, which was _really_ ironic for someone who could supposedly _See._  

“Let’s go, then.” Jon stood up. “I’ll let them have a cursory look, I suppose. Check on Daisy. Hospital staff’s going to get tired of seeing me there.”

“Easy to do, that.” It… was a joke, said unthinkingly. He didn’t realize it until after he’d said it, but it _was._ He even laughed, a little, and that was… hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he had _properly_ joked. Maybe even before the Prentiss thing. Definitely before Elias had killed Jurgen Leitner. And he was joking with Jonathan Sims, of all people.

They were feeding each other a fantasy. But Jon’s dirty look, and laughing at themselves was _nice._  

Tim had almost forgotten what it meant to be happy. Strange that this was almost a good start to relearning, but he’d take it. 

Right now, he found he really didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hint: if you sound like a couple, and feel like a couple, it turns out, you might be becoming one! just saying, tim


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re an idiot.”

“I… I’m aware.”

“Stay out of that mess.”

“I… I don’t think I could try again… even if I wanted to.”

He was still coming back to himself, bodily slumped against the wall as he was. Tim watched as he slid down a little further, shirt rumpled, hands useless at his sides, and closed his eyes. Another stupid decision, another close call.

Another scar to criss-cross the first on Tim’s chest, but it was less important in the face of Jon near dying by trying to See information on Lukas’s plan.

_Idiot._

Tim sighed, still crouched in front of where he’d found him, passed out on the floor. It was probably the only thing that had saved him. Being able to feel enough pain for his body to shut down. But that plan wasn’t foolproof, these days, with Jon changing more and more each passing second, and this time… this time had been bad.

Funny. He had been trying so hard not to care. About Jon, about any of this. He’d been trying to do that _before_ he had even died. But he did care. God, so much. _Too_ much, in this line of… work. And now he was actively aware of being Jon’s guardian angel, and he was, well… so much for hating him.

There was a lot he didn’t forgive him for. A lot he couldn’t forget. He kept saying that. But things were bigger for him now, even bigger than The Eye and The Entities and The Archivist’s place in it all. He was _dead,_ for God’s sake. And Jon was the only person he had left. Forget the only person he could trust. _The_ only person at all. 

Being bitter was exhausting, and Tim was dead tired.

“I need… I need to sleep,” Jon mumbled. He already looked halfway to it.

“On the floor.”

“Don’t think I can walk yet.” He shifted minutely. “I’ve– ah– so, I’ve done that before, obviously. Never passed out over it, though.”

“You should have known better after pulling the story from _Breekon_ nearly put you on your arse.”

“Yes… you’re right. But what choice do I have…? We don’t know about the… the Watcher’s Crown and–”

“Just. Stop talking.” Tim stood up. “Stop working, for a minute. You’re a mess.”

“I don’t think I _can_ stop working.”

“I think you have to.”

Jon laughed, but it was all wrong. “Either I die… doing this… or I die during a Ritual… or I die doing something else for the work." He shifted, pushing himself up an inch. “I’m always going to die, in every scenario. There’ll just be another Archivist to take over when I’m gone.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Gertrude had been replaced easily enough, it seemed like. Jon would be, too, one day, probably. No sugar-coating it. “But not on my watch,” he added. “Guardian angel, remember. Make sure you stick around until your time’s actually up.”

Jon looked up at him. Still half unable to open his eyes, at this juncture, looking at him from under his lashes. Hurt and weary and _Jon,_ not _The Archivist._ “And how do we know when that is?”

“I exploded a building on top of myself, I think I know a bit about _good times to die.”_

The helpless sounding noise was maybe a laugh. “I suppose you–”

“Who are you talking to?”

They both looked up. It was Daisy, standing uncertainly at the threshold of the office. Her hand was braced against the wall and she was looking at Jon like… not like he was crazy, like she ought to be. But looking, anyway.

“Er–” He cleared his throat as he pushed himself up further. “On tape, for the record.”

“What record?”

“Just… just thinking out loud, Daisy.”

“You were having a conversation, not thinking out loud. And…” She walked through Tim before he could move. He ignored the sensation, and she didn’t seem to notice the cold. “Your tape’s not on.”

“Oh.”

The whole conversation was weak. Tim looked between the two of them, and then shrugged when Jon locked eyes with him in something like tentative hopefulness. A question.

“Jon…?”

“Would you…” Jon laughed, again. Another small noise. _Scared._ He was scared of what Daisy was going to say. Hell, Tim was a little himself. He’d say the anticipation was going to kill him, but… _well._ “Would you believe me if I said it… it was Tim?”

“… what…?”

“That I was talking to Tim. Now, before you walked in.”

“I’d…” Daisy’s eyebrows furrowed, and she looked at him, and then at Tim, at the spot Jon had been staring, and was staring at again. Tim knew she couldn’t see him, but she was still staring. “… I’d say you were crazy, but… that’s… not really a thing anymore.”

Jon's breath of relief was almost contagious. Tim found himself… eager, maybe. Pleased. Not that it would do him much good, but it was the fact of the matter and all that. Someone else would know he was there, at the very least.

"Tim… is he…?" 

"He's dead," Jon said softly, but firmly. Squashing that bit of hope before it could start up again. "But he's here, still. He has been, since I woke up from the coma." 

"So he's… what, a ghost?" 

"Yeah. Er–" A glance sideways, eyes settling on him. "An angel, to be… exact, I suppose." 

"Tim's an angel?" 

That quiet accusation almost made him feel like squawking in indignation. _Almost._

"He didn't know. He didn't know until he… ow."

"What happened to you, anyway?" 

"I was trying to See things… Lukas's plan, a bit." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." Maybe it was his energy coming back, his body and mind healing itself, or maybe it was _sharing_ the clusterfuck that had been going on between him and a ghost the past two months, but he had managed to properly sit up now. "Didn't go as planned." 

"Well… no." Daisy frowned, but didn't move to try and help him. She probably couldn't herself yet, these days. Or maybe she just didn't want to, but Tim didn’t think that was it. Needed to trust people. "That was stupid." 

Tim spat a laugh, and Jon shot him another reproachful glance. 

"Yeah… Tim's had plenty to say already, trust… trust me. Mm."

"Stop _moving,”_ he ordered.

"Shouldn't you take it easy for awhile…?" Daisy asked.

Jon laughed, closing his eyes against the both of their voices. "Okay, I take it back. Maybe this was a mistake." 

"What?" 

"Now I have both of you complaining at me." 

"He's… he's here, now?" Daisy asked, looking back towards Tim. Looking a little over his right shoulder, actually, but he didn't move to accommodate. He was so used to people looking through him, anyway.

"He never really leaves. He's not really… able to go far."

"He's… he's tethered to you, then. Or is it still the Institute?" 

"Just me." 

"Thank God," Tim muttered. 

“… well.” Daisy smiled. She looked a bit more like her namesake, this way, free of The Hunt and its influence. Kinder, more gentle. A bit… weird, coming from Daisy, but people changed. And this was better. The Hunt wasn’t good for anything. “Hey… Tim.”

It was also weird, two months on, to have someone other than Jon (or Peter, but he hadn’t seen him again and he didn’t even want to) _talk_ to him. It was… good. And a little scary, really. But good. “Good to see you again, Daisy.” For that instant, he forgot she couldn’t hear him.

Jon could, though. “He says good to see you.”

“Glad you’re, um, still around?”

Jon had still been working himself up, but now came to an abrupt halt. “That's probably moot, for him,” he said without provocation, and swallowed. “But I think– I think I really need to lay down, now.” For all of his enthusiasm, he looked like he was going to puke.

“Just _go,_ Jon,” Tim said. “Why is it _so_ hard to get you to take a _nap–”_

Jon did manage to get his feet under him, then, but the standing up bit nearly pitched him over. Daisy moved to steady him. Tim got there first. Instincts and all that, but then he actually managed to catch Jon’s hand in midair, and Jon gripped back to steady himself.

It was so fast that it almost felt normal. Except Tim was a _ghost,_ who couldn’t interact with the physical world well, and he’d managed to… grab Jon’s hand, this time. He’d managed to hold him up.

He realized it first, and then Jon, and then Daisy. A succession of understanding over a long few seconds, all three of them varying levels of _shocked._ And he was a ghost; nothing should shock him.

“Oh–”

“Tim.”

Tim felt his hand give way again, beyond his control; Jon staggered from the sudden redistribution of weight, and Daisy did have to help to steady him this time. Jon looked at her, still a little pale. She was, too, as she held onto his opposite arm. “… need any more proof?” Jon asked, tremulous. 

Daisy just shook her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daisy, oh daisy. love her. finally, Jon gets to share his experience and Tim gets to share his existence, a bit
> 
> apologies on the delay - try to write a new chapter at each new episode before posting a back chapter, but the last few episodes haven't given me a WHOLE lotta wiggle room so I'm stretching posting chapters a bit /patiently waits for 146


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Yes, Daisy.”

“It’s just… people not seeming who they are these days.”

“I’m positive.”

“I… I’ll trust you, then,” Daisy said. “You knew I was still me. So I hope you’re right about him, too.”

“If it’s not him, then I’ve got something _really_ terrible attached and it’s probably too late for me.”

“Jon.”

“Who knows,” Tim said faintly, glancing at the scattered research on the break room table, “I could be your worst nightmare.”

Jon exhibiting enough of an outward sarcastic opinion to _actually_ roll his eyes would never cease to amaze. “You really couldn’t.”

Maybe not. He couldn’t see into Jon’s nightmares– thank God– but Jon still had them enough. Tim didn't want to know. He’d had enough of his own, when he’d been alive.

Daisy was looking closer at him, too. “What?”

“Ah– I talk back without thinking. Sorry. Bad habit.”

“Yeah…”

“Crazy is catching here,” Tim said, voice sing-song, mocking. (It was true, though.)

“Probably need to stop doing that,” she continued, “or at least, tell them about him.”

“I… I don’t think they’ll be so easy to convince.”

“But because I spent eight months buried in a coffin, I will.”

“That’s about the long and short of it.”

 _“I_ could tell them.”

“That would probably make it even worse.”

“Because I spent eight months buried in a coffin,” Daisy intoned, and Jon repeated,

“Because you spent eight months buried in a coffin, yes.”

Jon hid his smile away in his mug of tea, and Daisy scoffed in something that was like fondness to her, these days.

… it was good, Jon getting on with everyone again. Not that ‘getting on’ was accurate, really. But he was actual _friends_ with Daisy now, and he’d gone out to drink with the three of them last week; apparently Daisy had dragged Basira along, and Basira, Melanie, sooo… It was the closest thing any of them had really _been_ to ‘getting on’ for awhile, anyway. 

And, anyway, now that Jon had finally gotten his head out of his arse, he _wanted_ friends. Which, honestly, it would have served him right for no one to want to be around him, after everything, but Tim was glad that was turning out to not be the case.

Jon’s only companion being dead was a bit like having an imaginary friend, and wasn’t that just _sad._

“Should we go?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Go?” Tim echoed, dragging his eyes away from Jon’s stupid papers. Being in this place… he didn’t _want_ to work, but even as a ghost, he couldn’t _quite_ not look at their research without some interest. Guess it helped he didn’t have an active part in it, now. (Not in a _I’ll blow myself up again_ kind of way, anyway.) “Didn’t know you were doing something.”

“Drinking again.”

Tim laughed so hard that he _actually_ snorted. Christ, that was embarrassing.

“No, _listen,_ I’m not– I’m not going to drink like _that_ again.”

“You should,” Daisy said. “It’s good to let loose once in awhile. Get off the clock.”

“I don’t really get to _be_ off the clock.”

“Or, you know, do it because the first time was _fucking hilarious,”_ Tim added quickly. It had been. It would be again. Tonight was going to be _fun._

“Oh, shut up,” Jon muttered.

When he walked through Tim on the way out, Tim was positive it was out of _petulance,_ and he was still snickering all the way to the pub.

 

“Why isn’t he terrible?”

“He’s drunk.”

“So he should be _more_ terrible! How can he sing?!"

He could sing. Add that to 'List of Things Jon Could Do that Tim Hadn't Known About.' He wasn't _amazing,_ but he _was_ drunk; if he were doing this sober… not that Jon would do karaoke sober. But all the same. He was doing far better than Tim ever had. 

He missed this. Going out after work, getting pleasantly tipsy and spending the night literally or figuratively jacking around. Having harmless _fun._

His old group probably didn’t even miss him. His friends from the rest of the Institute, from his old jobs, from uni… they probably didn’t even notice he was gone, anymore. He wondered if they had at all.

… probably not. Who had he been to them except just another guy?

“What the _hell,_ Jon?”

Tim zoned back into the conversation to find Melanie just as stupefied, just as drunk and just as loud, as Jon dropped back into his chair.

“We didn’t know you could sing,” she announced.

“Ah–” Tim wondered if the flush on Jon’s cheeks was the alcohol or embarrassment. He _looked_ embarrassed, then. “It’s– it’s nothing… I’m not _good_ or anything–”

“Bullshit!”

“Guess Georgie didn’t mention, huh?”

“No, all she tells me is about how you don’t have sex–”

Jon absolutely spit some of his beer before slapping a hand over his mouth.

“– and it’s not like I even _wanna_ know that shit–!”

Basira took Melanie’s drink, holding it up to her face. “Drink this and stop talking.”

“You’ve never had sex?” Tim blurted at the same time, and Jon was definitely, _definitely_ embarrassed now. The blush was spreading past the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, but _Jesus Christ, really?_ “Are you still a virgin?!”

“No!” Jon spluttered, wiping his mouth. “I’m not– I _have_ had sex,” he hissed. “I am _not_ a virgin. ‘though why it’s any of your business–”

“Uhhh…”

… right, Tim wasn’t really here. Jon was having a conversation about his virginity with _nobody._

“No one said anything, Jon.”

“I don’t want to hear _this,_ either,” Melanie complained. “Jesus.”

“You’re just talking to yourself there, Jon. Remember? I’m not here.”

“Not my fault,” Jon muttered.

“You’re the one who mentioned it,” Melanie retorted, and Jon blinked like he didn’t understand why she was talking at him.

“We should go,” Daisy said suddenly. She was looking at Jon, too, not taking her eyes off him. Only she would get that Jon _was_ talking to someone. At least she was sober enough to try and spare him the embarrassment. “They’re both out of it, going to miss work tomorrow.”

“I’m not missing work,” Melanie shot back. “I never miss work. I live at work.”

 _“I’m_ definitely not missing work,” Jon announced. “I’m physically… incapable.”

“You puked on your front steps when you tried to go to work when you were hungover last week,” Tim reminded. Yes, he was still just a _little_ smug about it. It had been _funny._ Jon was never in such a disarray for something so _normal_ like being hungover. “You didn’t even do karaoke last time. You’re going to be dead tomorrow, smartass.”

“Like you.”

“I–” That was his joke, turned on its head. He could still go on if Jon didn’t _look_ that way, but. No. “Oh, shit. Bad joke.”

“You shouldn’t be dead, either.”

“Jon, you _really_ need to stop talking–” Tim started.

“What’s he talkin’ about?”

“Airing regrets he doesn’t need us knowing.” Basira stood up, hauling Jon up by his arm. That was a kindness. And a relief. “I’ll get you in a cab.”

“No, I’m… I’m fine.” Jon cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up. “Sorry, just… spaced out a bit. I’m fine. I’ll manage a cab. Thank you.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Thanks, Basira.”

They must have been there a long while; the sun had already gone down, and Tim was again reminded time was a _weirder_ construct for him than it had been previously. Just like heat or cold or hunger… those things were gone. Getting fuzzy drunk was gone, he thought with a side glance at Jon, as the man shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

Leaving it at their aborted conversation in the bar was… awkward. So, Tim, ever trying to find his way back to _Tim, ye funny man of olde,_ these days, set to lightening the mood. Heavy shit stopped being his thing when he died. “This is why you shouldn’t drink.”

“This is why you shouldn’t _talk_ to me when I’m drinking.”

“I don’t make you talk back.”

“It’s reflex.” He frowned, the wrinkles at his forehead deepening. They were probably permanent, at this stage of the game. “Instinct? I’m used to it, is all. You were basically my only friend for a few months, remember?”

“Imaginary friend.”

“It’s hard to _think_ when you’re drunk.”

“That’s the _point,”_ Tim said. It came out more cheerful, so that was good. At least Jon wasn’t… focusing on the actual manner of his death, or whatever had caused _that_ look inside. “God, I’m jealous. I miss beer.”

“You miss cocktails. Martin told me once.”

“Fuck you, there’s nothing wrong with Sex on the Beach.”

Jon spluttered, stumbling over his own feet.

“The idea of gender-exclusive drinking can fuck off, too, it’s _alcohol.”_

“I– I really wouldn’t know.”

“Pink is awesome.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“Yeah.” And on _that_ note… “Speaking of _sex–”_

“Oh, God. Don’t.”

“So, you don’t have sex, huh, boss?”

“I said I have, once, it was just–”

 _“Once?_ You’re, like, thirty-two?? Thirty-three?”

“I'm _thirty,_ but–”

“And you’ve only had sex _once.”_

“Yes,” Jon grumped. “It was _fine,_ but ultimately, I’m just not interested, thank you so much.”

“But you toss off, right?”

Jon shrank a little in on himself. “… sometimes?” he muttered.

“Sometimes,” Tim repeated, monotone.

“When I’m… on very long days, sometimes.”

It was only the alcohol that was letting Tim get these answers. He knew that, and yeah, maybe he was taking advantage of it a little. But Melanie had put it out there. He was just capitalizing on it. It was… _nice_ to be able to get answers. He wondered if this was how Jon and his compulsion felt. Probably.

“I’m not being a _prude,”_ Jon continued, saying it a little sarcastically. “I know they all probably think I am, but I don’t look at someone and think, ‘oh, they must be a good shag, I absolutely have to have them.’ I’d rather read a _book._ Or something.”

 _Or something._ Tim didn’t repeat it this time. Instead, a different thought, brought about by the _phrasing_ Jon had used: “are you ace?”

“Am I _what?”_

“Ace. Asexual,” he continued, at the blank look on Jon’s face. “Part of the queer umbrella?”

“Oh.” Jon shrugged. “Never thought about it. Never heard of it.”

“Asexuality. It’s the ‘A’ in ‘LGBTQIA.’”

“I don’t go looking for labels. ‘Weird’ usually suffices.”

Jon kept meandering on, a little unsteady and hands in his pockets. But Tim just… stopped, because _weird usually suffices._ He’d been out for awhile, a _long_ while, but… yeah, that had been a sentiment, once upon a time. “You’re not…” he trailed off, and sighed as he moved to catch up. “Okay, yeah, you’re weird, _especially_ now– sorry– but the other stuff isn’t weird. We have terms for a reason. The labels are there for a reason.”

“I don’t want a label. I don’t want to be anything. I just want to be Jonathan Sims,” Jon murmured, and it was definitely the drinks that was causing that… tone. Horribly, endlessly terrified. Vulnerable and _aching._ “I just… would really like to be him.”

… fuck. He wasn’t _good_ with comforting. He was a loud drunk, a happy one. Jon derailing into self-pity and depression he didn’t feel comfortable sharing sober _wasn’t_ something Tim knew how to handle. He wanted to make it better, but he didn’t know how. “… well, I can’t make it _LGBTQIA_ J,” he muttered. “But if you wanna be _Jon,_ _Jon’s…_ he’s an okay thing to be.” He said it quietly enough that, for a minute, he thought maybe Jon didn’t hear at all.

But then Jon snickered, glancing over. His hair was back in his face, ever falling into his eyes no matter how much he pushed it back. The only way he could keep it back these days was tying it. That, and the lingering unhappiness, and he still looked mostly a bit of a wreck, but said, “thanks, Tim. Wasn’t sure you knew how to be motivational.”

Crisis averted, more or less. He scoffed. “I’m _good_ with being queer. ‘I swing both ways, violently, with a bat,’ and all that.”

This time, Jon was the one choking on some unattractive noise of laughter. Tim took the opportunity. Disheveled (amused) Jon made him smile, oddly, and he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puts a filter over Tim's mouth shhhhh babe
> 
> seriously though, I'm of the hc he absolutely dyed part of/all his hair pink once when he lost a dare. and don't fuck with his cocktails, if he wants a pina colada, he gonna order one


	10. Chapter 10

Physical forms were _hard._

He wished there was some magic word– just pop off an ‘abracadabra’ and he’d be mostly human again. But it really wasn’t that simple, and if there was some kind of special chant, spell, or something otherwise more useful than straining like he was trying to take a week old shit, Tim had really missed the memo.

Jon was still out cold, not even having managed to take off his work clothes last night. No way he was going in. Probably, no way he was doing anything except sleeping, or puking when he was conscious.

Tim, decidedly _not_ drowsy, was trying to get himself to flicker properly into Jon’s realm.

It was easier when Jon was in danger. The knife, the recorders, the moments after trying to open the Door to All Knowledge. But then, Jon was really in danger 24/7 these days. It shouldn’t be hard. But it was.

Maybe focusing on Jon was the trigger, though, in a general sense. So, he focused on Jon.

Yes, Tim was hanging out in his bedroom and watching him sleep. Good ghostly thing to do, right?

The tension only left Jon when he was sleeping these days. Sometimes, even _that_ didn’t help, but he was coming off a binge and dead to the world (okay, they needed a new phrase to describe _Jon_ nowadays, didn’t they) so he was pretty… peaceful. The lines smoothed from his face. Face half buried into his pillow, as it was, mouth hanging open a little. God, did he _drool–_ stay with it, Tim. 

The subtle curl in his hair; he was really going gray now more than ever, silver catching in the strands by the sunlight straining through his curtains. Tim thought he preferred the brown, but the silver gave him character, in a way. Or maybe it was just jarring to him, some weird, twisted idea that _Jon_ might be slowly turning into, say, _Elias._

Stay _with_ it, Tim.

There were the scars, of course; Tim knew those intimately, the same ones he had had peppered along his own skin. The highest concentration of his were on his back and chest and hands. Jon’s were clustered around his arms and back and neck. They were terrible. Tim was good at pulling anything off if he had enough time to trick himself that said thing was really something else, but yeah, they were… holes. Scarred holes. Like gunshot wounds, but way, _way_ less cool and infinitely more _freaky._

The one just under Jon’s third knuckle, on his left pinky, never had healed up as nicely as the rest. Maybe that was why Jon spent idle moments between writing scrubbing at his hands and wrists like they hurt. Phantom pain had been a thing. Or maybe he just had carpal tunnel. Who knew.

There was, apparently, a hell of a lot he didn’t know about Jon. Fair. Jon didn't know a lot about him, either. 

Focus, you prick. Why was this so _hard?_

He was still staring, trying to commit the curl of his hair and the shape of his lips to memory, the bags under his eyes and the way he just seemed to curl around the pillow, holding onto it like it was keeping him together… it was really _pathetic,_ but if Tim wanted to be honest with himself, then Jon was _sort of_ his–

The _pop!_ startled him in a way he hadn't felt in _ages;_ displaced air between your joints when you moved a certain way, except he didn't _have_ that problem, these days… except right now, heavy and _uncomfortable…_ Holy shit. 

He looked down at his hands. Real, there. _Corporeal._ (That word was getting tiresome.) The rest of him, more or less, too– a little _wavery,_ maybe, and he definitely _felt_ unsteady, but–

"Jon." He reached for the edge of the bed. _Feeling_ was _strange._ His hand touching fabric was strange. _"Jon,_ wake up." He tapped Jon's cheek, and then tried to shake him awake. "Any _time_ now."

Jon gave a garbled noise of protest, something mumbled in sleep and his hangover and muffled into his pillow as he turned his head. 

Tim grabbed his shoulder and shook harder. "Jon!" 

"Chriiiist, _stop."_

"Open your eyes, dickhead, be hungover some other time." 

"What–" Jon demanded, all half asleep and weak and mush mouth as came in the morning. He cracked his eyes open, just a slit, and looked glaringly at Tim. "– do you want?" 

He waved his hand in front of Jon's face. Then deliberately reached and pressed a fingertip between Jon's eyes. _"Look."_

"I can't see when you're so–" Jon trailed off, eyes still directed upwards like he was trying to see Tim's finger. Must have clicked. Tim grinned, and Jon's forehead crinkled beneath his finger. "Wai…" 

"Blink and you'll miss it." 

"... oh shit," Jon breathed, and then was scrambling up and trying to kick the blankets away. Which, moving that fast was a stupid idea when you were hungover, _and_ Jon predictably went as pale as milk. "Oh _shit–"_

"Puke on me while I'm solid and I'll never forgive you," Tim warned. 

Jon laughed, just laughed, a hand over his mouth as he all but fell to his knees on the floor next to Tim. "You're here," he said, muffled, and lowered his hand. "You're actually here…?" 

"I've _been_ here." 

"I'm… still drunk. Dreaming." Jon tilted his head. "Right?" He held out his hand. 

It was a good guess, he'd give him that. Tim rolled his eyes, and almost teasingly turned his face towards him while saying, "no, Jon, _trust_ me. I'm _actually_ physically here." 

_"How?"_ Jon reached the rest of the way, brazenly putting his hand flush to Tim's cheek. 

That was still a little, uh, startling. It had been the intention, but, still. Jon's hand was _warm._ God, he hadn't felt _warmth_ in ages. He'd almost forgotten it. "Faith, trust, and pixie dust."

_“Tim.”_

“I just… tried really hard,” he said, like that wasn’t _wholly_ inadequate but mostly– totally– true. “And this is… it’s… a lot,” he admitted, “but _good?_ But I don’t think I could do it all the time, which is probably–”

Jon curved his hand around the back of Tim’s neck, pulling him in so that their _foreheads touched._ Tim wasn’t used to being _flustered_ over anything resembling intimate contact, but that was… yeah, that was pretty much doing it. It was so very _uncharacteristically_ Jon that it was mystifying him, a bit, and he was just doing the stupid mouth gaping open staring awkwardly at Jon from this distance. Which was no distance.

“God, Tim, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Jon was still drunk. Or sleep drunk, or having a shitty start to the hangover, or _something,_ because Jon wasn’t _like_ this. Jon didn’t _do_ this. (Except, what if he did? You don’t know him, Tim.) (I know him well enough. He’s just… tired, and overemotional, and coming off a bender.) Jon hadn’t apologized like this when they had first met up in the hospital room post-coma. He was _out of it._

… but God, Tim missed being close to people. He really, _really_ did. And Jon was _warm,_ so goddamn warm, smelled of aftershave and booze and shampoo or cologne or _something,_ and Tim’s heart was pounding. Why was his heart pounding? Christ, this was worse than puberty.

“I didn’t mean to call you back. I didn’t want you to die, but I didn’t want you to come back like _this.”_

“Just…” Tim started, strangled, and then had to swallow to clear his throat. “Stop spewing emotions while you’re hungover.” And he… couldn’t really help relaxing into the press of Jon’s forehead against his, the hand curled, what, protectively? at the nape of his neck… that was good. It was _nice._

He was so goddamn touch-starved that, for a second, he thought maybe he would have… oh, no, no, _no,_ nevermind. He wasn’t _thinking._ Or maybe he was thinking too much. He was _not_ going to kiss Jonathan fucking Sims, and he didn’t even _want_ to.

It was almost instinct to break whatever the hell this was, and so Tim went full on hug instead of… _this._ Jon went easily, acquiescing in his arms because, Tim thought dully, Jon probably hadn’t been _hugged_ in ages, either.

But that was fine. Hugs were fine. 

Jon was absolutely still hungover, and Tim… Tim just didn't have an excuse. He was dead. That was his excuse, he guessed. 

Jon was… good, this was good, but… also a lot. _Still_ a lot, maintaining a physical presence for no other purpose than shits and giggles and testing himself. So, Jon was good, and Tim maybe appreciated this more than he’d admit, but whatever kind of supernatural strength he had was draining.

“Right. Okay, enough of this.” Except Jon didn’t move. Except now it was less of a hug as it was just Jon half draped around him, and “Jon, did you just fall asleep on me?” The lack of response was indicative, he guessed. “Jon. Jesus, you lightweight.”

A lightweight that was going to end up eating hardwood if Tim didn’t get him somewhere more stable than _temporary ghost body._

Jon didn’t stir when Tim bodily hefted him up to settle him into bed. It was easy enough; Jon was all of one seventy and probably nine stone five soaking wet. More scrawny by the day, really. And he’d been small to begin with. Or maybe that was just because Tim had twenty on him. That height difference had been fun, back when things were still mostly okay and the only thing he had screwed with Jon over was how Sasha could be taller than him if she wore heels to work. But those days had passed.

Regardless, tucking Jon into bed was easy. He’d done it with Danny, when they were younger. But he didn’t _really_ want to compare Jon to Danny. More bad comparisons than he wanted to count.

Still, he was _sweating_ from his version of exertion by the time he wrenched the sheet up over Jon’s shoulder. What good was the ability to blink into existence if it _killed_ him to be there? He guessed that’s what he got for trying to have fun. Not that this was fun, really.

All he had to do was vaguely stop concentrating to feel that tension snap; the line between tangible and insubstantial gave way again, and Tim was there but not really _there._ Like he had been. At least it was familiar. At least it _felt_ better. He dragged his fingers through his hair and just… sort of stared. At Jon. Again. For no reason, this time, even.

He… he was going to take a nap. He was tired now, too. Emotionally and physically. Or spiritually. Who knew which was which, nowadays.

He’d take a leaf out of Jon’s book, and try to get some rest.

 

“A true display of beauty.”

Jon, in a _true_ display of out of character behavior, raised a hand from where it was clutching at the toilet, and flipped him off. Or maybe it was just like Jon to be _sassy_ like that when he was hungover. Either way, Tim laughed out loud, and Jon winced, shifting to press his fingers into his ears.

Fine, _fine._ He wasn’t that much of a monster. He _knew_ hangovers sucked, probably especially when you were pretty much a teetotaler. “Sorry, but it is your fault.”

Evidently, Jon hadn’t plugged his ears good enough. “Blame the Eye.”

“Oh, trust me, I always do.”

“You’re just going to stand here and watch.”

“No, I’m going to give you advice, unlike last time.” He was _not_ a teetotaler. “When you’re done puking, get some water, take more pills, and _don’t. go. into. work.”_

It ended up not being the work thing Jon complained about. “I already took pills…”

“Yeah. Like five minutes ago. You threw them up. Take another dose, I won’t let you die.” He rolled his eyes. “Eat–”

Jon made a tiny, wounded noise.

“– breakfast. I’m serious. At _least_ have ginger tea for now if not, I know you have ginger out there.”

“I thought sleeping it off was the best remedy…”

“Sure, that’s the only thing that will fix it, ultimately, but this stuff helps. Feel like shit while you make breakfast, but go to sleep after eating and you’ll wake up feeling better. Theoretically.”

“Theoretically…” Jon echoed, and Tim swallowed down a laugh at how _miserable_ he sounded. Job stressors asides, it _was_ his due to pay. Again: _normalcy._ No monster sickness. No _Archivist_ bullshit. Just alcohol. He’d never get used to how genuinely _happy_ little normal things made him, these days. And he definitely wouldn’t get used to the little things Jon did making him happy, but he’d take it, he guessed.

“Come on now.”

“… right.” There was a sigh to follow the word, short but displeased, even as he urged himself away from the toilet. “Did you…” On his feet, Jon cleared his throat to continue speaking even as his attention hyperfocused on the few steps it took to get to the sink. “Did you _actually_ … um, were you really here?” he asked carefully, turning on the tap.

Oh, he did remember. Good. “I’ve been here.”

“That’s what you said earlier,” Jon mumbled into his glass.

“So then you answered your own question, huh.”

Jon breathed out shallowly through his nose, and swallowed a mouthful of water. “I don’t remember a lot,” he admitted, “but I remember… touching you, I think. Sorry about that,” he added, awkward. Then he nodded slightly, whether to affirm the conversation or psych himself up, and began the walk to the kitchen.

“I mean, I’d probably touch me, too,” Tim said. And he hadn’t minded. He’d minded a lot less than he wanted to admit.

Anyway, Jon didn’t really take the joke-bait. “Thought I was dreaming. How did you…?”

“Focus. Really focused.”

“That’s it…?”

“Basically.” It was still an inadequate description. “Then you fell asleep again, and I pretty much _had_ to give it up after I hauled your arse back in bed, anyway.”

“Ah–”

“Don’t know if it’s something to… practice?” He leaned against the counter as Jon carefully set about making his tea. “It’s exhausting. _Really_ exhausting. Like take your hangover and add in mounting physical exertion and intense concentration, you’ve got my physical form.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. But dunno if it’s something I should get used to? Or… if I should only be manifesting when _you_ need me?”

“And there’s… hardly any literature about actual angels at the Institute. I checked… a while ago.”

“No manual’s owner for your own personal guardian angel,” Tim said, mocking but cheerful, and it still got an exhale of laughter from Jon. “It’s whatever, right now. I’ll figure it out. Probably a me thing, anyway.”

“Right…”

“Just drink the tea and go back to bed, for now. Lightweight,” he added.

“Shut up…” Jon murmured, and he was absolutely, definitely _sulking_ as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ## 🕺🕺🕺
> 
> seriously let both of them _be able to cuddle_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whose fic veers from canon this chapter? 👇

“You cannot be serious.”

“What am I supposed to do, _not_ go and stop the Ritual?”

“You don’t even know that there _is_ a Ritual!”

“We don’t know that it’s not, and I can’t take that risk. Besides,” Jon added, sitting his duffel next to the door, “Basira would just go by herself, and I can’t let that happen, either.”

_“Jon–”_

“I can’t have her facing The Dark by herself again. I think it’s… dangerous.”

“You _think_ it’s dangerous. And what about it being dangerous for you?”

“I don’t think Beholding would let me die, at this point.”

“No, fuck The Beholding, that’s _my_ job.”

“Are you _jealous?”_

 _“No._ I– maybe?” He scrunched his nose in annoyance, getting trapped in his own hypotheticals and Jon’s unexpected questions. “Did you _really_ just ask me if I was jealous over having to protect your scrawny arse?”

“You just didn’t express _this_ much of an opinion when I dealt with The Buried, and I went in alone.”

 _I wasn’t_ settled _in being your guardian angel._ “You’re just trying to give me the ‘I’m not afraid of the dark’ speech,” he said instead. “This is _The_ Dark. Capital ‘T,’ capital ‘D.’ Hell of a lot more dangerous.”

“I couldn’t give you that speech, anyway.” Jon glanced at his passport, and then tossed it on top of the bed. “The usual dark’s terrifying enough as is. But I can’t stay here. Regardless of it’s really what it seems, regardless of if it’s a trap… I have to go.”

Tim groaned, dragging the heels of his hands against his eyes. “That means _I_ have to go. I don’t want to go. Why do we have to go?”

“Because–”

“That was rhetorical, I know why we’re going.” He dropped his hands. “Damn. I guess at least I don’t need to pack a bag.”

“Passport free travel?” Jon tried, and Tim huffed a humorless laugh.

“Right, but getting felt up by customs was my favorite part.”

“Huh.” Jon looked as equally unamused, but he was still busy anyway. Getting stuff ready to go. Worrying about The Dark. Worrying about Basira. Probably not worrying about himself.

“… wonder if ghosts can get seasick,” Tim muttered. Jon didn’t seem to hear him at all.

 

If he’d had to pick a place to go on holiday, Tim– only personally, of course– would have picked somewhere _warmer._

It didn’t matter to him, really, he wasn’t trying to materialize and the best view was settling near the funnel, so a person up there might _actually_ halt their travel through the ice, but… Ice. Snow. _Cold._ And people paid to do this just for the novelty of it. Tim liked to think he was adventurous… _had_ been, at one point, but… _Hawaii._ _Costa Rica._ Even the Carribean.

He guessed that didn’t do very well for _The Dark,_ though.

“Is she any better, or still puking her guts–” Tim stopped, cocking his head at the look on Jon’s face. It was… _wrong._ He hadn’t _felt_ anything wrong. At least, not up until now. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He leaned his arms on the taffrail, looking out over the ice. 

“That’s not _nothing.”_ Tim scowled. “Didn’t Basira just get on you about communication?”

Jon heaved a sigh, resting his head on his hand instead. “I just met someone.”

“You met someone,” Tim repeated. Yes, he was incredulous. Jon didn’t _meet_ people. “Meaning, you got a statement from someone.”

“Yes.”

“Who gave you a statement?”

“‘Gave’ is _probably_ a kind word.”

“Oh.” That was a noise of disgust. No, he wasn’t going to pretend he thought that was a good idea. _Compelling_ statements. “You _pulled_ a statement from someone. Jon–”

“Spare the lecture, Basira tried to give it. I needed the statement, so I took it,” Jon said evenly. Too evenly. What the hell did his voice sound like that for?

“Right, I’d spare the lecture if it didn’t sound like I’m _literally_ talking to The Eye right now. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing.”

“I _assure_ you it’s nothing,” Jon started, and lowered his voice when one of their passing shipmates gave him an odd look. “Look, I needed more information about Salesa. I knew there was a possibility of his past co-workers being aboard this ship. The tape kicked in, I took the statement. That’s _all.”_

“‘That’s _all,’”_ Tim repeated. That’s _all,_ like that wasn’t a lot. That Jon had _known_ about the possibility. That he had picked this boat for this reason, probably. That Jon kept saying he _took_ the statement. Even though Jon _always_ took statements, even though he was responsible for that as Head Archivist. Took. _Took._ “You _wrenched_ a statement from someone’s _head,_ Jon. What happened to free will?”

“It’s unfortunate, but given the nature of what we’re trying to _do–”_

 _“Unfortunate?”_ Tim repeated. And then stopped, because this, once upon a time, was an argument he would have used. _Do what you have to do to accomplish your goals._ The whole reason behind his own suicide, stopping the Unknowing had been his goal and if it killed him and the whole archival team along with it, so be it.

But _Jon_ had expressed his own counter-argument to that, both prior to Tim’s death _and_ after his return. _You’re not eggs to be broken._ Except, whoever this comrade of Salesa’s had been… that was _exactly_ what he’d become.

“My God,” he said abruptly. “You are turning into Gertrude.”

“Now _you’re_ turning into Basira.” Jon sighed, straightening up. “I’m not turning into Gertrude. I’m just myself. Just Jon. _You’re_ the one who said ‘Jon’s an okay thing to be.’ And… And I have to stop this Ritual,” he added. “It’ll be different, once we’re back. But right now, I _have_ to focus on what will stop it. Like you and the Unknowing. Alright?”

“The difference _is,_ I’m not here to sacrifice myself for you again. No detonators to press this time.”

“Yet,” Jon said, and Tim scowled at him. “Don’t worry, Tim, I’ll figure it out. We need to have a plan for everything and I’m just… I’m just gathering information.”

“Hurting whoever gets in your way.”

“So he’ll have some _dreams,”_ Jon retorted. “It’s hardly like he’s dead.”

“Right,” Tim murmured. “That’s where we’re drawing the line. Mentally fucked, but at least he’s still alive. You and I _both_ know that’s not always preferable.”

“It’s just for _now–”_ Jon stressed, for a moment. Then, whatever he was about to say was deterred by his phone vibrating. “I…” Another sharp, short sigh. “I need to go. She’s, well… I’ll just… be glad to get off this boat,” he muttered, and went.

Tim let him.

“You and me _both,”_ he muttered. He never thought he’d say it, but he’d be glad when they finally got back to the Institute.

He didn’t know if the Institute was even good or bad for Jon, at this point. Hell, he’d hardly ever known. So they got sick when they weren’t doing work, but Tim had never quite figured out if it had been their… life essence tied to The Eye, or moreover a sort of _detox_ from it, and he hadn’t been in quite the mental state to test the theory, back when he’d hopped a plane and tried to run away.

 _Could_ they leave, eventually? He wondered. When all of this was said and done. 

Overlooking that… would Jon even _want_ to.

Tim didn’t know. He _really_ didn’t. The Jon from a few weeks ago, oddly attentive while hungover, had utterly gone in the face of this Ritual, and Tim was starting to wonder how many times he could flip back and forth before they couldn't get him back. Jon was still Jon when he wasn’t being _The Archivist,_ but when The Archivist took over and there was no time for Jonathan Sims… Tim didn’t know what that meant, for any of them, either.

Nothing good. It was never anything good, with The Eye watching over them.

The Eye watching over Jon when it was _Tim’s_ job to watch over him. _Are you jealous?_ Jon had asked, and no. It wasn’t that. He didn’t think it was. It was just… annoyance. Yeah. That.

Jon was being stupid– big surprise– and The Eye was still on their arse.

“You’re not gonna keep him forever,” he muttered, and tilted his head to squint towards the sun. “You don’t get to keep us forever. Hell, you lost Sasha to The Stranger, Martin’s dealing with _The Lonely,_ Melanie was poisoned by The Slaughter and we lost Daisy to The Buried for awhile. Now Basira and Jon are heading off to stop The Dark… and _I’m_ dead.” _So there._  

Even Elias was in prison, and the Institute was being run by a _Lukas._ Tim might have been pleased at the very ‘fuck you’ feel that seemed like had been stuck to The Eye, except nothing was ever what it seemed, and Tim couldn’t trust being happy with this.

“… you aren’t keeping Jon, either,” he continued. “Mark my words. I’ll make sure of it.” _Somehow._

The nice thing about being a ghost was that no one could look at you weird when you started having conversations with the _eyes that watched over you._

 

It was an old research facility. Because of course it was an old research facility, the only other _more_ cliche thing would have been if it looked like a bloody warehouse. Tim wasn’t even surprised. But god _damn_ if it didn’t feel bad, which… pretty much meant they were on the right track. Still didn’t mean he _wanted_ to see what was in the almost-cliche-warehouse. Still meant he was going to have to, though. Especially when Jon went charging ahead with this half-baked plan, shoving the door open to let himself in without so much of a warning to either him _or_ Basira.

Manuela Dominguez rippled with the feel of an avatar of The Dark, and Jon’s compulsion made Tim’s head _pound_ this time.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know _what,_ exactly, asides the obvious, but… something just felt _wrong._ He’d blame the black sun, which was here, apparently, and _yeah,_ he was sure that had something to do with it, but it was more than that. Just… that little nagging _supernatural sensation_ he’d been getting with the especially weird things since he’d come back. And right now? He didn’t have the time to sit back and try to puzzle it out. So, he let himself stray from immediate at Jon’s side, searching through the not-warehouse nearby as Manuela gave her statement. If something here could hurt Jon, he was going to find it. So, he left Jon safe with Basira, and went to snoop through as much of the building as he could.

There were _absolutely_ parts of this place he knew he shouldn’t be in. They _hurt._ He could tell exactly which parts of this place had been _really_ touched by The Dark. If he thought Jon’s compulsion made his head hurt, the especially Dark places here were _hell._ They felt like coffin had. The reason he hadn’t tried to follow Jon in, what felt like ages ago now. (One of many, at the time.) 

He didn’t know what would happen if he tried to stick his nose into those places. Unlike Jon, he wasn’t keen on rushing in first and asking questions later. Not anymore. (Basira was all _Jon, do this._ Jon was all _try everything._ _Someone_ had to be the responsible one. Tim guessed it was him, on this little adventure. Because him being the responsible one _really_ could bode well. He’d committed suicide to stop the Unknowing, for God’s sake.)

“You said the dark sun was still here?” 

Tim perked up, blinking out and back in at Jon’s side after he heard Basira ask. Jon was focused enough that he didn’t even look up, eyes intent on Manuela, waiting for that answer.

“Fine. If you're so keen to take everything, undo the work of centuries, it's just through that door.”

“Jon?”

“How dangerous is it?”

Tim shivered.

“Only myself, Maxwell, and Natalie could even look upon it. It will annihilate you both in an instant.”

Somehow, he doubted that, these days. But his head was still swimming. He wondered how Jon felt. 

“Ask her how we can destroy it,” Basira ordered, and Jon shook his head. 

“I know how. I just need to see it.”

Tim looked at him.

“See as in…”

“As in... actually see it.”

“Go ahead. Just try,” Manuela sneered, and… and no one lodged a protest. Well, of course _Jon_ wasn’t going to, but Basira, maybe– no. _No,_ because _he_ was the responsible one. Shit.

“Jon,” he started. _I don’t think this is such a good idea._

“I’m doing it,” Jon interrupted, turning for the door. No hesitation. _Just like Gertrude,_ he imagined. “Get out.”

“Well, _I’m_ not going,” he retorted, but Jon was already walking away. “Hey, arsehole, would you just stop to _think_ for a second– ugh, _Jon.”_

“I’ll be fine. It’s not safe for you.”

“It’s not safe for _you,”_ he shot back, but he… didn’t think Jon was wrong. He didn’t want to follow him. He wasn’t sure if he _could._ “We can just leave it, no one _else_ knows it’s here–”

Jon waved his hand in dismissal, vanished behind the door, and Tim let himself feel The Dark, and its sun.

It was slightly more conscious this time; he was stationary in the old research center, standing glued to the spot Jon had left him. But his mind went with Jon, went terribly, _terribly_ blank for a moment of complete and utter _darkness_ spreading across his vision. _Mr Pitch,_ he thought, terrified and helpless, and _shook_ under the effect The Dark had against him.

For a second– for one terrifying second, because _he_ was experiencing it, maybe– this was almost worse than watching Danny have his skin snatched off.

And the movement at his back startled him back into the singular beam of light still splashed across the facility: Basira’s torch, held loosely in one of her hands. Tim sucked in a sharp breath, and stared at the beam, and then wrenched thought back to himself when he realized they were still _standing_ there. Both Basira _and_ Manuela, and Tim dragged his eyes away from the light, up to their faces, in time to see them look between each other and… 

Oh. 

Oh _no,_ no no no no no no no– 

“Jon–!” he started, whirling for the door.

Something had felt off. Something had _been_ off. And she’d been right under their nose. _Basira._  

“JON!”

Everything fell out at once. The tether jolted; the pain started. He felt The Dark waver and heard rushing water, and then he was charging through the doorway Jon had vanished through. Dark water splashed beneath his shoes, around his ankles. He jerked to a stop, staring at the dark water pooled in the middle of the room. Somewhere nearby, the dark sun. Tim didn’t _look._

He thought it might have hurt more, walking in here, but, well, he was _already_ hurting.

“Jon?! Jon! _Jesus Christ!”_

Think, _think._ Except he _couldn’t,_ because _whatever the fuck_ was happening, this _had_ been a _trap,_ Jon was– “Shit!” The water was getting deeper, cold at his calves. He couldn’t breathe. His chest– _focus, Tim!_

Wait, if the water was getting _deeper…_ The Dark. Brackish water. Oceans, lakes. Tim stared into the dark water flooding the room. Tim took a step forward. His foot went deeper. _Oceans, lakes._ An actual pool.

“Oh shit,” he breathed, smoothing his palms against his thighs. “Shit, shit _shit,_ Jon.” Tim took a deep breath, and dove into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I was just a tiny bit disappointed with the whole Dark thing so this happened! :D But! Nobody panic! it's just a tiny thing! nbd! right! also remember when Jon made a speech about how they weren't eggs to be broken! and I said that was gonna be sad in a few chapters! hello! here it is! I'm giving you all so much with this update, huh???


	12. Chapter 12

The water was frigid.

It knocked the breath right out of his lungs. Tim didn’t even need to breathe, and the cold and dark still tore into his body, his mind, his non-working lungs. It was _paralyzing._ For a second, he forgot how to function, agony and cold and his body shaking apart from the inside out.

And then he remembered Jon, his _purpose,_ and doubled down at grasping at his own self-awareness and tried to focus in The Dark’s domain. This _was_ The Dark’s domain. They weren’t supposed to be here… fuck, Jon especially, The Archivist especially, Jon, Jon, Jon–

 _Focus,_ Tim!

It was hard to. He was panicking. There was no way around it. He couldn’t _not_ panic. He couldn’t breathe, he didn’t need to breathe, and he was drowning. Jon was drowning. Jon– Tim caught the edges of his consciousness, of Jon’s consciousness, and kicked off from something solid to chase after it.

Jon’s wrist was ice cold when Tim grabbed hold of it. He held on, pulled him closer, and frantically hoped up was actually up and the water had an end. It was The Dark, not– not _Drowning,_ or something– 

When they did break the surface, Tim nearly felt dizzy with relief. No, he _actually_ did. Feel dizzy. Breathless. Weak, and he couldn’t blink the darkness out of his eyes. “Jon–” he choked, and swallowed a mouthful of brackish water as his head was dragged under again.

He wondered if he could die again, like this.

But Jon was the one to haul him back to break the surface again, his hand under Tim’s arm and then over his eyes. “Don’t look,” he said, voice dark and pitched low, and Tim couldn’t have if he wanted to. He _didn’t_ want to.

The pressure in his head exploded. Tim scrabbled at Jon, through the cold of the water, over the rush of static and panic and _agony._ He thought he made some vague, _terrified_ noise. From somewhere nearby, someone screamed.

– and then. Nothing. Soundlessness, and darkness. And just then? It was _nice._ Tim let himself be dragged away into it.

 

The world was moving. Up, down. Up, down. Tim’s stomach churned. He took a breath, and then another, and cracked his eyes open against the cold and pain and nausea. He was shaking. He was _still_ shaking. “Jon…” he mumbled. He had to be sure _he_ was okay. This unshakable cold didn’t matter. Jon mattered. “Jon,” he rasped, forcing his eyes open the rest of the way. “Jon–”

“Right here.”

His breath rushed out. Tim sagged again, and it took a second for him to realize it was Jon’s hand at his arm, Jon’s chest against his back, Jon supporting his weight. Tim was… half sprawled into his lap. Still shaking. But Jon was there. Alive, evidently. So that was good. That mattered. That was all that mattered.

His eyelids drooped again, and he let out another, shuddering breath.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

A different voice. Female. Familiar. Basira. So, she was alright, too–

Tim was about to drop off. Then it all came crashing back. The sun. The water. Basira, and Manuela, working together(?) Trapping Jon. Trying to kill him(?) but now they were here and _Basira_ was here, and Tim didn’t think he had the strength to _breathe,_ let alone _move,_ but he managed to propel himself up on pure _spite,_ half shielding Jon the best he could. He really _would_ die before he let something hurt Jon. That was his purpose. That was his goal. He’d do _whatever_ for him, even now. _Especially_ now.

He glared, and trembled.

“It’s okay.” Jon’s hand seized at his arm, trying to… console him? Or maybe just hold him in place. “She’s okay, Tim.”

 _Bullshit._ Tim glared towards her, weak and _angry._ God, he was so angry, in ways he hadn’t been towards anyone lately. Angry and scared. It always came down to the _fear._

Basira just looked back at him, uncertain and unhappy and generally unfazed by his anger.

“Tim,” Jon repeated, squeezing his arm again. “It’s okay.”

 _Don’t be stupid. It’s not okay. This isn’t okay. It hasn’t been okay, it won’t be okay, how can you say it’s OKAY?!_ Tim couldn’t form the words. The arm he was propping himself up with finally gave out, and he collapsed back against Jon’s chest again.

 

“Tim?” 

He grunted, curling in tighter to the blankets. Still cold. Christ, when was that ever going to go.

“Are you with me?”

 _I’m always with you, you stupid fuck._ His head hurt. Whatever tiny noise of discontent he might have made was muffled into fabric, and then he made an effort. God, again. “… yeah,” he muttered, shoving his hair out of his face. 

“Really with me?”

How many times had he been in and out? He felt like he’d come to a few times, but couldn’t remember much. Just the cold, and Basira, and Jon. “Yeah,” he repeated, forcing his eyes open. “Sorry…”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“Fuck if I know.” He was staring at a pillow. Blankets. Bed. He turned his head, and rolled over.

Jon caught his shoulder before he could, and then pulled away. “Not much room,” he said, and it took Tim another second to realize they were on the _boat._ He was curled small in the tiny berth, blankets wrapped around his shoulders, and Jon was sitting on the floor next to the bed.

“Oh.” He sounded stupid. He felt stupid. Of course they were still on the boat. The motion of the waves was _actually_ the motion of the waves, and not The Dark’s water tossing him about. Right… he was nauseous. Tim licked his lips, and tried again. “Tell me what happened?”

Jon nodded, watching him uncertainly. Like he expected him to drop back into the blankets and sleep again. Which maybe that wasn’t far from the truth, but he focused when Jon spoke, anyway. “The water came out of nowhere. Part of The Dark, but I– I didn’t expect. I didn’t ask the right questions.” He shook his head. “There was water, and I couldn’t _See,_ and then you– you were there, and– and as soon as I broke the surface, I think…” He looked thoughtful. And still a little… scared, maybe. “I think that was enough of escaping The Dark’s realm that The Beholding _could_ react? I got to looking at the sun again, and I got it, that time. I heard Manuela and Basira screaming… you were unconscious,” he added, and Tim nodded, once.

“I couldn’t stay awake.” It was all so pathetic. Maybe that was what he was apologizing for. “Those places, Jon… I– I don’t think I’m supposed to _be_ there. Even less than you. The Buried…” God, both of them had felt terrible. “I couldn’t go there. But I didn’t stop… this time. I couldn’t. Because The Eye couldn’t help you there. Or maybe it just _wouldn’t,_ but nothing else was going to save you, except me.”

“Yeah. I think the rules are different, about going into those realms, for the undead.”

Tim stared blankly. He still felt a million miles away. “Are they?” he asked, plaintive, and Jon just shrugged.

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I–I think, probably? Helen said something similar–”

“Helen? _The Distortion_ was here?"

“It, er, hm…” Jon made a face. “Well, I guess it’s like with Michael, before. When The Distortion saved me, then. Helen– Helen wants to help.”

“The Spiral wants to help The Eye,” Tim repeated. It made no sense. None of it made sense, and it was even harder to focus than usual when his ears were still full of water. “Why?”

“It’s…” Jon shifted, leaning back against the bed. “It’s a bit beyond me right now.”

That was the truth. His whole body sagged when he breathed out again, and Tim continued, “me, too.”

“Right. Um. So, after the sun was destroyed, the water was gone, Helen caught Manuela through a doorway, and whatever hold The Dark’s had on Basira seems like it… went away, too.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, looking down at him.

“I– yes, I _know,”_ Jon continued in exasperation. “But she wasn’t full Dark. I knew– I _figured,_ after her run-in with Maxwell, maybe? Then she brought this up, and I couldn’t let her come here _alone.”_ He sagged a little himself, looking abruptly _tired._ God, he did look tired, even more than usual. “It’s like with Melanie, and The Slaughter, or Daisy and The Hunt. Take out that part of the equation and they’re fine, they’re back on our side.”

“Or they’re faking,” Tim reminded.

“I don’t think so.”

Tim wasn’t fighting that battle right now. He couldn’t. He didn’t bother to try. “So, where is she?”

“Oh, uh, Helen offered us a door. Back home. But they said– they said you couldn’t come through? They didn’t… really explain, but– we had to get back somehow. Basira was here, earlier, you know, but she was sick again. And… confused,” he added, looking back at Tim. “About a lot of things. So I took Helen up on that doorway. They made it back fine. We’ve got a day and a half, still.”

“Great.”

Even more of a mess than it had been before. He didn’t interact well with The Dark and he couldn’t go through The Spiral’s doors. But he’d died for The Stranger and was (still?) working for The Beholding. 

It was all… so confusing.

“I need to sleep,” he whispered, and then, raising his voice, because Jon was the most human out of the two of them, _“you_ need to sleep.”

“I have,” Jon said, “a bit. The sun was like electric, when it shattered? I was awake for awhile. But now I’m just– I’m actually a bit exhausted, really.”

“Sleep,” he repeated. “In bed. Here.” He patted the blankets, as sarcastic as he could manage just then.

“As if we both fit.”

“I’m a ghost.” He stretched, and tangled his feet in the blankets. “I don’t take up _room,_ Jon…” He had a _look_ on his face. Tim trailed off. “What?”

“Oh, you…” Jon blinked. “You haven’t– you haven’t _been_ a ghost the past two days. You’ve been you.”

Oh. Well, that all clicked, too, then. The sensation beneath his fingertips, blankets beneath his bare feet. The cold, whether it was still The Dark or the fucking Norwegian Sea. Jon’s hand on his shoulder, Basira asking if he was alright. “Ohhh. Oh, she knows, too.”

“Yeah.”

“How did _that_ go?”

“It… went.” Jon shrugged. “She was quiet. Confused. But she… she went with it.”

“Sounds like Basira…”

“What else was she supposed to do? Especially when you looked prime to kill h–uh–” Then Jon was yawning, dragging his hand up to cover his mouth too late.

Tim laughed, once. Tried not to yawn himself. “Get some sleep, Jon. Day and a half, you said. Here.” He held out an arm, shifting until his back was against the wall to make room. “We’ll manage.”

He looked at him like he was insane, for a second. “What?”

“I can’t click off.”

_“What?”_

It _was_ partially true. Finding his body had been weird, before. Now finding his _ghost_ form wasn’t coming naturally. He couldn’t focus on it. And, yeah, it was weird that he could still be mostly human while _not_ focusing, but then, the scenario had been _weird_ this time. “Think The Dark’s still kinda got me. Maybe? I’m still _cold.”_ He shrugged. “I’m not gonna get trapped with a body, Jon, that's too easy. I'm not worried. I’ll flicker when I flicker. But I gotta sleep. And you, too. And it’s cold,” he repeated, and offered part of the berth and part of the blanket to Jon. “Get warm while we’re both here.”

But only partially true. He didn’t _want_ to look for his gateway back into disembodied spirit. Not yet. He _was_ here, and it didn’t hurt, and bed was nice, and the blankets were comforting, and Jon was stupid and concerning but very much alive, and warm, and there, and _Jon._ And Tim just wanted to _hold_ someone. There. The crux of the matter.

He wanted to hold onto Jon, alright?

“O… okay.”

He didn’t know _why,_ then, it was so surprising when Jon agreed. Maybe it was the same thing. Maybe Jon wanted to hold onto someone, too.

Or maybe it was just because he was _cold,_ and Tim bodily shuddered as he curled around him and felt the cold roll off him in waves. “You. are. _freezing,”_ he hissed, tucking him more securely against his chest. “Jesus.”

“Am I…?” Jon squirmed, and then sagged against him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Fuck.” He tucked Jon’s head beneath his chin. Didn’t ask, just did it, and turned his face into the tangled curls at the top of his head. “Go to sleep. Maybe we’ll _actually_ be warm by the time we get back to land.”

Jon laughed. Just once, just a puff of air and the tiny movement of his shoulders against Tim’s weight. “Hopefully,” he murmured, and only hesitated a second before shifting his legs alongside Tim’s.

It was only because of the space. There _was_ literally no room. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose Jon to the floor. But he tightened his grip around him, because of that, held onto him a little tighter, and pretended he didn’t _want_ the warmth inasmuch he said he needed it. But he did want it. He did.

He was glad he was tired. The exhaustion afforded him no time for any other reaction than simply falling asleep, and that was another tiny miracle in and of itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim: I'm not gonna get stuck in a human form, Jon, God hates me too much  
> Jon: ... well, you're not wrong
> 
>  ~~if only Jon loved you enough to make up for it imeanwhat~~ LOL


	13. Chapter 13

Tim was fucked.

He should have seen it coming. No, he _had_ seen it coming. He _had._ He’d seen it coming back when he’d first punted himself into a physical form, and Jon’s drunken/hungover reaction to that. But that had been a while ago. Two months, maybe? Things had happened. They’d gone to Norway, for God’s sake.

They’d gone to Norway, they’d been betrayed, they both had very nearly died, and that was just all in the last _week._

But Tim was fucked, because he had _feelings._ Odd. Complicated. Stupid, fucking _feelings_ for Jonathan Sims now.

Okay, he wasn’t stupid. You didn’t devote your entire existence to someone without feeling _something._ He hadn’t _chosen_ to devote his life to Jon, so, yeah, he’d been pissed at first. He’d just wanted to _die._ But, he’d moved past that. More or less. Enough to get on, because he _had_ to get on, so best to make the most of it. 

Now, he was actively protecting Jon, willingly throwing himself into The Dark to save him, and guiltily mouthing kisses against Jon’s hair as he’d held him while they slept. Yeah, so he’d done that. Throw that in with having wanted to kiss him proper when he’d been hungover, and all the stupid little shit like liking his laugh and seeking his company and actually _enjoying_ not-life again? Okay. Yeah. He had _feelings._ He wasn’t trying to _avoid_ that– you couldn’t just _ignore_ those kinds of things– but… this was tricky.

Jon was _not_ a good person to fall in love with, and Tim was, _well,_ dead.

First of all, Jon was getting less and less human these days. The Jon they’d known before wasn’t the Jon they knew now. And Tim didn’t exactly know if there was a differentiation in his _feelings,_ if one Jon had triggered _this_ versus the other, or if he was just looking at a slow burn of his own emotions but he’d figure it out later. Jon was already complicated enough without thinking about it too much.

He was complicated, and he was _clueless._ Christ, he hadn’t even noticed _Martin_ fawning over him for _years._ How the _hell_ was he ever going to deal with Tim catching emotions for him? Tim didn’t mind being blunt, not at all, but there was _blunt_ and then there was _getting Jon to not be a fucking idiot regarding romantic intentions,_ and Tim didn’t know if he had the patience for it.

All _that_ aside, Tim _was_ dead. Which he guessed probably didn’t change things very much as far as emotions went, seeing as how he still _had_ them, but… it _complicated_ things. And it was _all_ so complicated to begin with.

So, yes, he was fucked.

But hey! At least they had survived The Dark! More than he could say about himself and The Unknowing! (One day, he’d stop joking about that.) Jon was safe! And Tim was okay, too! No new scars, and the cold had finally gone after he’d gone back to his non-body. So it was good! And he was in love! And Basira knew about him! So much excitement!

“So… this.” Basira looked… oddly defeated. Or curious. Or _tired,_ maybe. Tim was focusing on other things. “How long has he been here?”

 _“He_ can hear you,” Tim said tersely, and then, because he knew it wasn’t fair and because of the look on Jon’s face, gave a tiny sigh and continued, softer. “Sorry. It’s just… hard to be here.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“I just mean, you managed pretty well when I saw you after The Dark. You were, give or take, actually human.”

“I didn’t really have any control over that. The Dark did weird shit to me, too. But normally, if… hm. Jon needs to be in danger, for me to be here easily.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, it hurts. Uncomfortable, anyway.”

“So if I threaten to get a knife…”

Rationally, he knew that was a joke. But it wasn’t funny, and he was still on edge; he felt the _instinct_ run through him, and then he was shooting a mild glare her way. There were lines and limits. And if Basira had been touched by The Dark during the Rayner takedown, that had been a _long_ time ago, and she’d been under their noses the whole time. Just like Melanie. Just like Daisy. And he hadn’t trusted them when they’d been freed, immediately, either. He just couldn’t.

Basira huffed a dry laugh. “You don’t trust me.”

“Basira…”

“No,” Tim interrupted, and Jon turned to frown at _him._

“Tim.”

Basira nodded. “Good. You shouldn’t trust me. You don’t know if there’s any of it left in me.”

Jon looked annoyed enough to tug his glasses from his face, exasperated with the both of them. _He_ trusted Basira, and Tim would probably trust her again too, like he had after Jon had dragged Daisy from the coffin, but it wasn’t happening now. No amount of annoyed noise from Jon was going to change that.

But he appreciated Basira’s candor, if nothing else. She _was_ right. For every thing that they thought they knew, there were ten more they probably didn’t, and Jon couldn’t _afford_ to put himself in the line of danger anymore than he already was. No matter how much he wanted to, the dumbass.

“Yeah. Don’t be offended when I don’t exactly want to hand Jon to you on a silver platter just yet.” 

“You’re not handing me _anywhere,”_ Jon interrupted, looking through his fingers. “I can take care of myself.”

“No you can’t.”

“No, you can’t.”

Jon’s expression turned into a bit of a glare, and Tim shared a tiny smile with Basira. No, he couldn’t trust her yet. (Again.) But he’d get there, if she let him. And… without being overly familiar just yet, it was… _nice_ to have more people in his life. He’d popped in to talk to Daisy a few times, but it was rare enough that she still looked at him like, heh, like she was seeing a ghost. Which was fair. He didn’t fault her for that, of course. 

It was weird getting back into _normalcy_ with anyone other than Jon, but it was nice.

“Do you have to make _everyone_ gang up on me when you meet up with them again?” Jon complained. “First you and Daisy, now Basira. Honestly, Tim–”

“Hey, if you deserve to be roasted, I’m making damn sure you _get_ roasted,” Tim joked. But he was serious, and they all knew it. God knew he’d torn into Jon enough for him to know it, anyway. “Somebody’s gotta handle the shit jobs no one else wants.”

Jon laughed, and Tim smiled, bracing his hip back against the desk.

Basira was watching them, and Tim pretended that that didn’t unsettle him in an entirely _different_ way than re Jon’s safety.

“Glad to be a ‘shit job,’ then,” Jon echoed. “Huh.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m totally blessed here.” He kept his voice flat– it helped that the strain of _physical form_ was starting to kick into high gear– and wondered if it was good or bad when Basira rolled her eyes.

The benefit about being bi and invisible was getting to have all your neat little gay crushes tucked away in the in-between, and he only had Sir Oblivious able to bear witness to them. And Sir Oblivious was Sir Oblivious for a reason, so Tim was safe. Still fucked. But _safe._ Then, there were people like _Basira,_ who read others too deeply and too well, and leaning against Jon’s desk, laughing with him, when the last time she had seen him alive, he’d been pissed at the world and Jon in particular… that… that was not safe.

So, Basira rolling her eyes?

Good on the _Is Basira free of The Dark’s control?_ front.

Probably bad on the _Is Basira gonna figure out my stupid, stupid crush?_ front.

“You should–”

The door started to open. Tim flung himself away from Jon’s desk and back into nothingness, to his realm, and Melanie looked at Jon and Basira oddly as they still stared at the spot Tim had been standing.

“… what’re you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing.”

“… okay.” Melanie shrugged, disregarding Jon completely as she turned to look at Basira. “We need to talk to you.”

“We?”

“Me, and Daisy. Martin left a tape for us to listen to.”

Tim didn’t know if the spark in Jon’s eyes was a good thing, or a pathetic one. If he’d looked like that at the mere mention of Martin a couple years ago, things would have probably been _really_ different right now. “Martin left a tape?” Jon stood up. “I should–” he started, and Melanie shook her head.

“Not you. Just us.”

Jon stopped, lips tugging into a frown. “Why not me? _I’m_ The Archivist.”

“I think that’s the problem,” Melanie said, and Jon closed his mouth on whatever argument he might have been about to start up. “We’ll be in the break room. You,” she continued, looking at Jon, “don’t interrupt.” She left without saying anything else. 

“… right.” Basira shrugged. “I’ll go. We’ll talk more about this later. This Tim thing.”

 _This Tim thing is right here,_ he didn’t say, and watched Basira leave without another word, too.

God.

Well, at least whatever progress had been on made on that _Is Basira gonna figure out my stupid, stupid crush?_ front had been put to a halt. Tim looked at Jon, and Jon looked back at him. Raised an eyebrow in question, and Tim sighed.

“I’ll go. You know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on tapes Martin doesn’t want you listening to, right?”

“It could be important.”

“It could be a love letter.”

He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, and they both cringed over the honesty of them. He knew Jon knew about Martin’s… infatuation, at this point– he listened to the tapes, _had_ listened to probably more personal tapes than Martin would have wanted him to– but it was just… one of those things. Another one of those too late things that they didn’t talk about.

“Sorry,” Tim muttered. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started after the girls. “I’ll go find out what’s going on. But I’m not telling you if it’s super personal.”

“Agreed,” Jon murmurmed, and Tim made his way out of the office. He’d pretend he didn’t look back in time to see Jon drop back into his chair, looking completely dejected.

 

_“Jesus.”_

He was reeling. It was a shock to all of them, but he thought _he_ had a right to be the most shocked of them all. _He_ was the one who’d been stuck to Jon these past few months, and he hadn’t noticed him _feeding._ He wasn’t around him all the time, it had been a long while since he’d needed to be attached at the hip, but… still! _God!_ How had _he_ missed this?

Probably, the worst bit was that he _hadn’t_ missed this. He’d seen Jon after the statement on the ship. He’d looked him in the face and told him it was like he was talking to _The Eye._ He’d just thought it was because he was taking after Gertrude. But, unless Gertrude had had to _take_ statements that way, too, this was actually _worse._

Tim had assumed Jon was becoming like Gertrude, and that the impending Dark Ritual was taking its toll on him. But now, finding out that it was something _so_ much bigger… he should have pressed harder. Jesus.

“What do we do?”

“What _can_ we do??”

“Confront him,” Basira said. Her voice was clipped, but her face was determined. “We need to hear his side of the story, find out how many times this has happened.”

“And you, what, think he’s just going to _fess up?”_ Melanie exploded. “‘Oh yeah, by the way, I’ve eaten _this many_ brains since waking up!’”

“We have to, Mel,” Daisy said quietly. “We have to hear how he… reacts.”

 _“God._ Even _Elias_ didn’t–”

“We don’t know that,” Basira interrupted. “We don’t know anything. So we ask him. And we go from there. Take it from me, we _have_ to start questioning people we’re supposed to trust. This can’t go on.”

“Assuming he even _gives_ us answers, since, you know, Elias never did.”

“I think he will,” Daisy said. “He’s not Elias.”

“Not _yet.”_

“We’ll talk. Now. C’mon.” 

Basira was the first one of the room. Tim was the last.

Somehow– maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was– it felt like everything was sweeping him into the undertow and dragging him down to depths he didn’t want to be in. It had been a _long_ while since he’d felt like that (Dark drowning notwithstanding.) He was tethered to Jon, ie The Beholding and everything else with it, but he was still… disconnected. And now he was finding he was even more disconnected than he’d thought? What else had been happening right under his nose?

He was… confused, he supposed. And he didn’t know if he wanted to be defeated that he was being played for a fool _again,_ or if he wanted to ignore that entirely and utterly _tear_ Jon apart for something he probably couldn’t control, either. Neither sounded good.

But, the girls were going to without him, so he might as well go and listen. Maybe he’d figure out how he was feeling by then. Probably not. Some things were already too far gone.

Again and again and again, these days, he hoped Jon wasn’t one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delays between chapters; I'm kinda stalling to see how s4 plays out but also JonMartin feels are kicking my ASS whew anyway Tim's in love so that helps, right 😁


	14. Chapter 14

“You can’t go with them.”

“I have to.”

Tim hadn’t gone in with the other three to confront Jon, but he’d been outside. They hadn’t closed the door, and he’d just… stood outside of it, and listened. He didn’t know what was worse: the fact that Jon was grasping so tightly at the fact he might be being controlled, or the fact that they were going to go to _Hill Top Road_ because of its alignment with The Web.

It was all terrible, honestly.

_“No,”_ Tim said, shoulders braced on the wall outside the office. He’d been aiming for casual. Or maybe… maybe it was just exhaustion. He’d get back to that later. “You don’t. Have to do anything except feed off people’s trauma, apparently.”

Jon… must have let it slip his mind that Tim was probably listening, too. That he’d sent Tim to listen to the tape. Because he looked hurt, for an instant, when Tim hurled those words at him. “Tim…”

“No _Tim,”_ he interrupted, finally giving up his solitary place at the wall. Going to meet Jon in the middle of their stupid deserted archive hallways. “It’s _shit,_ Jon, and I know it’s shit. It _sucks._ You should have told us. _Me._ You should have told me.”

“What do you want me to say? ‘Oh, by the way, sometimes I can’t _physically_ stop myself from taking people’s horror stories?’”

“As much as a shock as it would have been, _yes!”_

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Oh, _GOD,_ Jon!” 

He hadn’t yelled in ages. Not properly yelled, where the words hurt his throat on the way out and echoed around these stupid deserted hallways. But he’d settled onto _angry_ again, because maybe Jon couldn’t control these force-feedings but he _could_ control what the hell he was telling everyone else about them. Or not telling.

They both flinched, varying levels of surprised at Tim’s volume. He shoved on.

_“How_ many times– _how_ _many times_ have we _told_ you– you need to _talk_ to us!”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Bull _shit._ Apparently you’re all going to Hill Top Road. And even if there _wasn’t,_ you still _need to tell us._ You’re in this cycle– this stupid, fucking _cycle_ of doing something stupid, or bad, and covering it up, and _hiding_ away from it, and then it gets _worse._ Then you wonder why it all blows up, or why _we_ blow up, because you didn’t mention _‘oh,_ by the _way,_ I’ve been eating people’s brains for _lunch!’”_

“That’s not what I _do.”_

_“That’s_ the part you’re still taking offense to?!”

“Do you think I _want_ to share all of this?” Jon retorted. “Tell everyone how I’m still somehow becoming _more_ of The Archivist? That I’m losing even _more_ of myself? Like– Like I want to mention I _literally_ cannot control myself anymore? I don’t… I–I’m not exactly _proud_ of that.” 

_“Yeah,_ Jon, it sucks. But what’s worse, us finding out like _this_ or you admitting to it yourself?”

“I just want–”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what you want. Not with _this,_ it’s what you’ve got. Ignorance isn’t bliss. Trust me, _I’d_ know.”

“I _know,_ I know, I just–”

“Jon.”

Tim looked past Jon’s shoulder at Daisy.

“… yeah?”

“We’re going.”

“Right. I’ll– I’ll be with you, in a second.”

“Why?” Tim asked, wrenching Jon’s attention away from Daisy as she walked away. _“Why_ are you going?”

“I–”

“Don’t say you _have to._ You don’t have to.”

“They need–”

“Wrong again.”

“Will you let me finish?”

“No.” He started stalking towards him, and Jon actually had the presence of mind to take a step back. Oh, he’d try to protect himself from _Tim,_ but not anything _actually_ dangerous. Right. “No, I won’t. You let me finish. This is _dangerous,_ Jon, maybe even _more_ dangerous for you if this Annabelle Cane has something to do with us, too. You think someone’s controlling you, you don’t go _running_ to them. Let the other three handle it.”

“It’s dangerous for them, too.”

“Jon, they handled an attack from _The Flesh_ while you were out. That’s what Basira told us, remember?”

“Daisy wasn’t there–”

“She’s got both of the women who fought them off with her.”

_“And_ both of them had influences from other Entities, which they don’t now–”

“And you’re worrying about the wrong things! Basira, literally back _fresh_ from The Dark and you’re bitching at me for not wanting to trust her!”

“Oh, she’s fine–”

_God,_ he made him want to _scream._ “How do you know!?” He was about to get there. It was the same argument, over and over and _over and over._ “You don’t _know–”_

“It’s _my_ team, I think _I’d_ know.”

“Like you knew about _Martin.”_

The look on Jon’s face hurt almost more than hurling the words in his face. But it was true, _dammit._ It was harsh. But maybe harsh was what Jon needed. He took a breath. Doubled down.

“Or Sasha.”

Jesus, he missed her. _Jesus._ He had… they had been so _good._ He had… they had been so good, and he _still_ couldn’t remember her. He still hated himself for that. Wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help feeling like shit over it. She deserved better than being a memory and a face he didn’t know. _God._

“… Tim…”

“… or me.” He tried to shake the pain of Sasha’s loss, tried to focus on the _anger_ he’d held so very tightly while he’d still been alive. “Or me, Jon, you never– you _never_ tried. I was… I was _good,_ dammit. I wasn’t even _touched_ by an Entity, not really, and you and me, we went through the _same thing_ with Prentiss, together. And you just– you did nothing. I was… I…” 

_Focus._ He couldn’t get that anger back, though. He’d never intended to share his emotional state prior to his death. He hadn’t intended to share any of that. It didn’t matter. It _hadn’t_ mattered. But he couldn’t stop, now. Especially when Jon was looking so horrified. Maybe that was a good thing now.

“I was suffering. We were _all_ suffering, Jon. Sasha was gone, and Martin– ugh.” _Martin just wants to have a tea party!_ It had been true, at the time, when he’d said it. Funny that he missed it now. (Not funny. Just… it was what it was.) “There was me, and you, and the two of us were probably in the closest kind of mental state we _could_ have been, and you just _fucked_ off. You didn’t know. Or you didn’t care. And I _really_ hope, for your sake, it’s that you didn’t know. But _I_ don’t know, now. I really don’t.”

“I…” Jon closed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it. Struggling for words. _Good,_ Tim thought dully. _Let it help._ “… care… Tim. I’m not… _good_ at it, but I… do. I want to.”

“Care enough to care about yourself, too.”

“… I don’t know what you want me to do.” He sounded miserable. Miserable, but… open, maybe. Or, well, as open as Jon got about these things.

“You _know_ what I want you to _not_ do.”

“I can’t… not,” Jon said pathetically. “I have to– they’re waiting.”

“Right.” He’d… hoped, maybe. But hadn’t expected much of anything different. Not right now, anyway. He wouldn’t be able to stop him going to Hill Top Road in this instant any more than Jon could stop himself taking statements in the long run. “Right… Go, Jon.” He stepped back. “Go follow your Web.”

“Tim–”

He didn’t see Jon reach for him, already moving past him. But he _felt_. He felt Jon’s hand close around his wrist, pulling him back and  _into_ his world. It was weird, an unwilling transition from incorporeal to physical. Surprising enough to drag a startled gasp from him, even as he staggered a step and the tingling sensation of a physical form washed over him.

“Er–” Jon let go of his hand, wrenching both of his back, stiff, to his sides. “Um.”

Tim blinked. And he couldn’t help raising his hand in a mocking gesture to _look_ at it, and down at himself, and then at Jon. “That’s… new,” he allowed. Jon, touching him. Jon, pulling him back into his dimension.

Jon looked a little surprised, but far less intrigued than he ought to have. All of Tim’s speech still rolling round in his head, he supposed. Martin and Sasha and him. It really _was_ miserable, new ghostly abilities notwithstanding. Small things, at this point.

Jon stared up, dejected, and Tim leaned down to kiss him.

He didn’t think, just _did._ Wildly inappropriate timing, sure, but _no time_ was a good time when it came to them and The Magnus Institute. And… he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to since that first time he’d gotten back to his own body. And Jon, stupid, reckless, careless Jon, made it so _difficult_ to know when he was marching off to his own death. Not so dramatic this time, Tim hoped, but… he didn’t want to think about The Web when he was kissing Jon.

It was awkward. One of many things Tim wasn’t used to when kissing someone. Second, Jon didn’t kiss him back. Tim thought he must have surprised him as much as he’d surprised himself; Jon was still. Stock-still. His eyes were probably still open. Tim wasn’t looking. Wasn’t sure he wanted to, really.

His hand settled along the curve of Jon’s jaw. Bent over him to accommodate the height difference, and Jon’s lips were chapped. Tim didn’t even think he was breathing. A touch of lips that was awkward and not at all reciprocated before Tim pulled away, but all in all, it wasn’t… bad.

He didn’t know how, but it really _wasn’t._ It was just… it was just _Jon._ It felt right, on par for shocking Jon with an impromptu declaration of _feeling._

When he straightened up, Jon did look shocked. No, utterly _stunned._ Eyes wide (so he hadn’t closed them) cheeks pink. Hands balled into fists at his side, still where he’d dropped them after letting go of Tim’s wrist.

Yyyyyeaaahhhhhh, definitely shocked. Maybe Tim shouldn’t have done that. But he never _had_ been good at keeping his intentions subtle when he had them on his mind.

“… go, Jon,” he repeated, pulling his hand away from Jon’s face. “I’ll be there if you need me.” Because he might not be happy about Hill Top Road, but he sure as hell wouldn’t let Jon go without him. If shit hit the fan, maybe they could use the element of surprise of a dead Tim Stoker appearing out of nowhere.

Jon still wasn’t saying anything, which was probably just as well.

“Come on,” Tim urged, and let himself fade out. He wasn’t sticking around for Jon’s reaction. Or lack thereof. And he had a feeling that if _someone_ didn’t blink first, Jon would just stand there in mute surprise for the rest of eternity. So Tim went, leaving him to collect whatever thoughts he was having. Or not having. Whatever.

Yep. Weird first kiss.

But things were weird here. Had been for some time, even before he’d died and fallen in feeling with Jonathan Sims. It was _on par._ And, like with so many other things, the ball was now in Jon’s court.

He settled outside, atop one of the second-floor ledges of the Institute to watch the front door for their miserable band of misfits. It’d take Jon at least a few more seconds to collect himself– at _least–_ and then Tim would meet them off at Spooky Street, and they’d try to solve the latest mystery of what the hell was going on and what was awaiting them for it.

But for now, Tim settled in to wait, and only felt a _little_ ridiculous for Jon not reacting at all to the kiss. Mostly, it was just _nice,_ and the flustered blush splashed across Jon’s skin had been nice, too.

It was still wildly inappropriate, really. But all of this was wild. _None_ of this was appropriate. And Jon… Jon had looked good. And it felt nice, to kiss him.

… God, this was ridiculous, and so very _fitting._ Tim rest his chin on his hand, and couldn’t help but laugh. At himself. At their lot in life. At the choices he kept making.

If anything, he thought, he was getting awfully good at living with no regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> fucking morons amiright


	15. Chapter 15

“… think she’s right. What I’ve been doing to these people, it– it hasn’t been because I was puppeted, or controlled, or… or possessed. I… _wanted_ to do it. It felt good. But at least I know I _can_ stop. I just– don’t know how. I don’t think– I… I don’t think I _want_ to stop.”

Tim wasn’t supposed to be there, so he did Jon the decency of _not_ being there. Letting him think he wasn’t, anyway. Jon reading that, _saying_ that, was proof that Tim couldn’t really… _leave_ Jon alone anymore. Probably, it was safe at the Institute. If people were coming here, they were giving statements anyway. But… still. Had to keep a closer eye out.

Had to figure out a way to make Jon stop. This was an addiction. Absolutely an addiction. And maybe it didn’t follow the typical _pattern_ of addiction, because this was supernatural shit and Tim didn’t know if conventional means was really going to help in this instance. Either way, it couldn’t continue, because it wasn’t good for anyone else and it wasn’t good for _Jon._ (Good for The Archivist, good for Beholding, but Tim absolutely didn’t care about them.)

Jon had to stop.

“Goddamn.” Jon pushed the chair back, dragging his face from his hands. “This one really took it out of me. I need to go lie down. End recording.” He clicked the recorder and left the room.

If their problems actually _ended_ with the recordings, Tim thought, this would be a whole hell of a lot easier than it was.

 

“Wake _up,_ Jon.”

Jon didn’t flinch as badly as Tim was used to with the nightmares; a few months ago, after the Buried, Jon’s nightmares had taken a turn for the worse before leveling again. But Tim almost figured Jon was probably getting _used_ to them. Or maybe they just weren’t the same anymore. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t ask.

“Ugh… God.” Jon slumped down an inch, not really looking any more rested than he had upon actually taking the nap a couple hours ago. “Been awhile since I’ve dreamt about the _spiders.”_

“Mm.” _Can’t imagine why._ Tim just shrugged, retreating back to the singular chair. “You slept for a couple hours, anyway.”

“Great…” Jon sank further down, slumping further into himself. “More than usual, then.” He looked up slightly, glancing up and– shit. Jon didn’t even know he did that. Looked up through his eyelashes sort of thing, all groggy and soft. And his stupid sleep-tousled hair. He really didn’t _know_ he did things, because he probably didn’t recognize they _were_ even things. Tim was good at things. Recognizing things. Hitting cues. But Jon made things difficult. Of course he did.

Yeeeeep. Time to be an adult.

“Look, Jon–”

“Did you think I was going to _die_ at Hill Top Road?” Jon interrupted.

“I…” Alright. “Maybe,” he admitted. “I never know about you anymore, you’re always in such a _rush_ to dive headfirst into something that could potentially kill you. And you weren’t _listening_ about how dangerous it was.”

“It worked out fine.”

 _“This_ time.”

Jon’s nose crinkled, frown lines prominent about his face again. So much for soft. “I still don’t understand.”

“Understand _what?_ That you are literally _still_ putting our lives at ri–”

“Why you kissed me,” Jon interrupted again, and, well, that effectively derailed Tim again. They were going back and forth here. Yeah, this was where _he’d_ been heading but he hadn’t thought _Jon_ – master of avoiding the obvious– would bring it up. “I don’t understand.”

Roundabout. But. _Whatever._ “What’s not to understand?”

“A lot?”

“Why do you think I– just generally speaking, you know– kiss people?”

“Because you need something.”

Tim opened his mouth. And then closed it. _That’s fair._ He’d done plenty of it, back when he was fishing for information with the people they had to get follow-ups or further information from. Work with what you have, right? He had charm. He’d never been afraid to use that.

Too bad it didn’t work on Jonathan Sims.

“Not all the time,” he complained. “That was _work._ This isn’t.”

“So…”

“So,” Tim continued impatiently, “why d’you– _generally speaking–_ kiss people, Jon?”

Jon looked, in a word, very nonplussed. “I think you’re asking the wrong person.”

“You kissed Georgie, yeah?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well?”

“Well _what?”_

“Oh, God, J– I _wanted_ to, alright?” He didn’t know who he was more frustrated with. Himself, for not knowing the exact steps to this odd version of mating dance, or Jon, for being so incredibly… _thick_ about certain things. Not even the kiss. But just _things._ “You know? Kissing because you want to?”

“Not really,” Jon admitted.

“Do you _like_ kissing?”

“I…” Jon seemed to think for a minute. He was still looking bleary. Confused. A bit wrecked, probably, from Anabelle’s statement, even. They… probably shouldn’t be discussing this now, but too late. “Sometimes?” Jon said, even if he said it like it was a question he was asking _Tim_ for answers to.

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t like… certain kissing.”

Deep kissing, then, probably. Tongue. Seemed like something Jon wouldn’t be into. Tim raised his eyebrows. “Did you like _my_ kiss, then?”

“I…” He was fumbling. A _lot._ Jon seemed to notice it, too, scowled, and then shrugged. “Suppose. It was nice.”

“Nice,” Tim echoed. Couldn’t help a little laugh. “Well, better than _bad,”_ he murmured, and then raised his voice. “That’s good, then–”

“But I still don’t understand why–”

 _“Because,”_ he said quickly, “because you don’t devote your _actual existence_ to someone without starting to feel things, Jon. This shit is _weird._ I’m _dead._ But I’m here, and _you’re_ here, and sometimes I think you’re so goddamn stupid you _need_ someone to protect you, and that’s me. But I want to. Too. Not just because I _have_ to. I mean, it’s a cock-up, but I don’t think I could _go_ anywhere now, you know?”

… maybe. He didn’t rightly know, honestly. If he was given the choice between going back to death or staying here, he really didn’t know which he’d choose. He wanted out, but on the other hand, he’d probably end up back in the afterlife eventually and he’d gotten to kiss Jonathan Sims here. How many people got to say that? (And how many people would be stupid enough to fall in love with him in the first place?) And… he’d never be given that chance, anyway. It was too easy. If he could count on anything, it was that there was _never_ going to be an easy way out. So no point thinking about it.

“Pretty sure you hated me before you died.” Jon had shifted back on the cot now, legs drawn up on the blankets.

“Pretty sure I did, too.” Not that it was that simple. “Kinda hated everything.” _Kinda hated myself._ “I’m not giving you a pass on all the bullshit you put us through,” he added, “not giving you a pass on the bullshit we’re going through now. But, yeah, life is too goddamn short, Jon.”

“You can’t say that,” Jon remarked. “You’re dead.”

“Which is why I can say it. Don’t know when I started catching feelings for you, buuuuut I can say it because it’s true, so.” He shrugged, a bit. “Also, I shouldn’t have kissed you without asking, so, sorry, but you wouldn’t _shut up_ and I was trying to make you realize all this is bigger than you risking than your life, and… and you looked pathetic, so I kissed you. I’ll ask next time.”

Jon looked like he was just… on a thrill ride, being jerked from side to side without time to really process that whiplash. He didn’t look… _upset,_ though, just tired and a little confounded, so Tim would take it. “‘Next time,’” Jon echoed.

“Yeah, if you want.”

“If I want.” It was a tiny frown, just the smallest tug of his lips downwards, but Tim _noticed._ Still, Jon somehow managed to find it in himself to continue before he could ask. “Sorry, what is this?”

“What is…” God, here he thought he’d spelled it out enough. “Dating, Jon. It’s dating. If you want it to be.”

“How could we _possibly…_ date? You’re a ghost, and–”

 _And that’s definitely_ not _the weirdest thing that’s happened at The Magnus Institute._ He didn’t say that, either. He didn’t need to. Instead, he pushed off from the metaphysical chair, melding back into the human realm. It was only a few steps from the desk to the cot, and he leaned over, bracing his knees on the side of the mattress and his hand on top. Close enough to be in Jon’s personal space, _infringing_ on it in a way he might have, say, someone he was picking up at the pub or something. But not _quite_ that much. Because this was _Jon._ He wasn’t like most people. “Like this, I suppose,” he said.

“You’re…” Jon leaned back. Somehow he managed to look a mix between cross and flustered. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Well… _yeah.”_ Tim shrugged. “That’s what flirting is.”

“Why, in God’s name, are you flirting with _me?”_

“Because I _like_ you.”

“Be serious.”

“Jon, I– and I know _this_ is _actually_ astounding– cannot _possibly_ be any more serious.”

Jon went still, just for a moment. Then, he finally closed his mouth. Only to open it again in a second to say _“oh,”_ quietly, like this was a revelation and Tim hadn’t just been _saying it._

Tim couldn’t help but laugh. What else was he _supposed_ to do? He dropped to sit next to Jon, still snickering. “God, I’m all but telling you I love you and you _still_ only just got it.”

“I… I’m _tired,”_ Jon protested. “I– I just woke up, and you… you’re telling me you… telling me this,” he said, ending that thought before it could rattle on. He didn’t seem to be able to say it, either.

“If it helps,” Tim braced his hands on his knees, “I’m just as clueless here, too. I… like you. Like I said, I’ve _caught feelings._ Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” Because who knew what _love_ was.

He didn’t. He absolutely didn’t. Hell, he’d never even thought about settling down. It hadn’t been on his mind _before_ Danny had disappeared, let alone during the nosedive he’d taken afterwards. People were fun. Hookups were fun. A long-term, committed relationship? Being in _love?_ Part of him, after Danny’s death, had been certain he’d never be _able_ to love anyone in any capacity; it was opening yourself up to the hurt that came with the loss, and he’d had enough of it for a lifetime.

Sasha, she had been… she might have been the closest. It had been… brief, but _different,_ and… and Tim didn’t like to think about it. Not anymore.

“… anyway,” he said, eventually, “it doesn’t really have to change anything. I mean, contrary to popular belief, I _can_ control myself and it’s not like I’m going anywhere, anyway. You’re still my pet project, like it or not.”

Jon laughed, once. “Right… right, this’ll sound– stupid, but– I never really knew– h–how d’you know if you… _like_ someone, precisely?”

Tim shrugged, again, and Jon stared in disbelief. “What? I said I didn’t know much about all this. Sex is sex, emotions are emotions. There’s a difference between the two. I _guess_ it’s because I still like being around you even without trying to get at your dick, that helps.”

“Oh, Christ."

“Because I want to protect you, too.”

“That’s your _job,_ evidently.”

“Yeah.” In agreement there. “But I _want_ to. That’s the difference. I want to, now. Plus there’s, like, the stupid way you smile, since you hardly _ever_ smile anymore, and how you’re almost _soft_ when you drink, and you chew on the damn ends of your pens when you’re writing and that definitely does weird shit to me, but that’s more of a kink thing than a–”

“Okay,” Jon interrupted. “Okay.” He took a breath. “So you, what, want to…”

“Be around you? Layman's terms, sure, let’s go with that.”

“Oh.” Jon just… swallowed, and slouched back against the wall. He looked a bit too _defeated,_ given the nature of the conversation, but– “How d’you know if you _like_ someone or if you’re just _lonely?”_ he asked, so quiet Tim almost didn’t hear.

Not like he really had an answer for that one, either.

“Dunno,” he said shortly. Best he had. “Guess we just be lonely together, then, either way.”

“That’s…”

“Inadequate?”

“… I don’t know,” Jon murmured, but slumped to the side, and Tim– damn himself– nearly jumped when Jon’s shoulder leaned against his. “Maybe not.”

… he didn’t know what he’d expected, really. And he didn’t exactly know what this _meant,_ either. But maybe it didn’t matter much, just then. “Maybe not,” he echoed, and only hesitated for that fraction of a second before slipping his arm around Jon’s shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> squishes your cheek ASEXUAL JON  
> squishes your other cheek AROMATIC JON  
> squeezes TIM WHO LOVES HOOKUPS BUT DOESN'T ACTUALLY KNOW TRUE LOVE  
> vibrates TIM WHO'S STARTING TO **LOVE** JON
> 
> also probably now is a good time to say this story isn't going to be canon compliant after uhhhh chapter... 19. I've got plans so whatever happens in MAG from this point on won't be included! (we'll be compliant up til mag156, I believe) ~~unless my lofty plans are also jonny's but I don't expect that so hurrhurr~~


	16. Chapter 16

Jon was hungry. As much as Tim wanted to grab a bagel and forcefully shove it into Jon’s mouth, _that_ really wasn’t going to help. Not that he was particularly sanguine on Jon getting his feelers into some woman’s brain, which was… definitely probably the intention since Jon was just _staring_ at her instead of his probably cold English Breakfast and barely touched pain au chocolat.

Goddamn, Tim wished he could just shove the croissant in his mouth and get him back to the Institute. If only.

He made sure the bathroom was empty, and strode out of it in his closest approximation of human that he got. He slid into the chair opposite Jon just as Jon started to stand.

“Oh, hey, _Jon!”_ Tim made sure he was being loud enough to attract attention. Had to make sure Jon knew he was _really_ there. “I haven’t seen you in _forever!”_

Jon had frozen. Then it was just… a mixture of emotions that flooded across his face. Annoyance, guilt, _anger._ A bit… feral, really. A little scary, but, hey, Tim was here now, he wasn’t taking off because Jon looked pissy. And Jon did sit back down, a little stiffly, plastering on a pained smile as he looked across the table at Tim.

“What are you doing.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Tim said sharply. “And absolutely not.”

“Tim, you don’t– I _need–”_

“You need to eat your fuckin’ French pastry and stop looking like you want to zombify the woman with the blonde hair.”

“It's not that _simple.”_

“Fine.” He reached across the table, snatching the croissant to pull in two. “You want a statement. I’ll give you a statement.” He peeled off a layer and popped it in his mouth.

It wasn’t foolproof. Not at all. And he didn’t even _want_ to give more statements. He hadn’t ever wanted to give one before. This was helping The Eye. This was helping The Archivist. But… it was also helping Jon. Or just protecting someone else, like that blonde woman drinking her coffee who had no idea Jon wanted to eat her trauma for lunch. 

He didn't dream. He didn't even need to sleep. And it wasn't like Jon's eyes didn't follow him everywhere, anyway. He'd take the chance. 

“You can’t– I’ve _read_ your statement,” Jon said in exasperation.

“Yeah, gave it a nice little name, too. ‘Sneak Preview.’” He’d seen the tape, after, shifting stuff away in their never-ending pile of bullshit in the archives. “Thanks for that.”

Jon grimaced. “So I title them, too. There’s– there’s a lot of numbers, these days. But I– I think I need _fresh_ statements. The ones on tape, they’re– they aren’t satisfying me. And you retelling the same thing probably _won’t_ actually–”

“I’m not gonna talk about the circus.”

Jon closed his mouth. And then reopened it, eyebrows drawn together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean a new statement, smartass.” He licked chocolate off his fingers.

“Wha–”

“Statement of Timothy Stoker,” he interrupted, looking at Jon across the table. “Regarding his… death, interlude, and return as guardian angel to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute. Statement given directly by subject, August 11th, 2018.”

Jon was staring at him in an odd way, familiar to the look of intense concentration Tim was used to seeing their boss with. But… altered as well from days past, Jon’s lips parted slightly, eyes wide. Intrigued. _Hungry._

“Not here,” Tim said. Had to take a minute to steel himself for all this again. And he wasn’t spouting this nonsense for everyone to hear. “We’ll go back to your place.”

Jon opened his mouth– to complain, most likely– but Tim cut him off.

“Don’t talk,” he said. “I don’t trust you to say _anything_ right now.” He didn’t. It wasn’t even just questions anymore, and Jon looking like _that_ at threat of a live statement didn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Don’t say anything. If you want my statement, we go home. Deal?”

Jon didn’t waste a second. He nodded, and was halfway to the door before Tim had even reached to finish off the last dredges of Jon’s cold, black tea.

 

“I don’t remember dying.”

Probably for the best, that. He had a feeling that it… would have hurt. And God, had he been tired of hurting. Pressing the detonator had been a choice and… it had felt _good_ to do it. The bit that came after? He had no idea, and he didn’t care. Good thing Jon didn’t look prime to fill in the blanks, staring at him like he was particularly good cut of meat. _(Ugh.)_ Jon probably didn’t have the answers, anyway.

“I remember before. In almost perfect clarity, really. I think you… I think you did something? Your _asking_ made me realize… broke through the shit of the Unknowing, and I _knew.”_ He’d had a moment of satisfaction in having the last word, _those_ last words. 

_“You know, I hear the Great Grimaldi’s in town. You should go see him. Cheer yourself up.”_

_“That’s not funny.”_

_“I know.”_

… bit odd, talking about it, actually. He’d ditched the human form well before they'd gotten back to Jon’s, but he still had to take a breath to continue, anyway.

“It was nothing after that. Which was good, you know? Don’t want to feel being blown up. I mean, there were still parts of me left, I guess, Basira said they _found my remains,_ but. Big boom. Death. Hello, Heaven,” he said sarcastically. “It wasn’t… Heaven, really, though. I mean, I’m not religious. Haven’t believed in God in a _long_ time. Something else for my parents to be disappointed over me about. They were _very_ Catholic.”

Jon didn’t smile, not even a little, even when Tim couldn’t help but laugh at the memory. God, right. What a joke. Mom and dad wouldn’t be able to explain all this shit if they tried. And… if anyone should have come back as an angel, it really should have been Danny. But he was losing the point, here.

“It was just blank space. Lots of nothing. I don’t know what I expected. I just… didn’t, really. I didn’t expect anything. I just wanted out, wanted away from The Eye, maybe get to see my brother again… and I did.

“He wasn’t there, and then he was? Just sort of appeared out of nowhere, and I wasn’t questioning it because that wasn’t my job anymore. And it was… well, you’ve never seen someone who you thought you’d lost forever, right? It’s… nothing else _matters._ Danny, he was the only thing that mattered. It was my brother, the… the way I remembered him before the Opera House. Just… the lanky little shit who used to camp out on my sofa when he was in town. It was like… it didn’t matter that the afterlife didn’t have a solidity about it. It was just… walking in the gym, and seeing Dan’s face on the adverts, except it wasn’t the adverts, it was just _him._ It was like I was just sitting there, waiting on him to start talking about his latest hyperfixation. I _wanted_ him to start talking about something. Anything. I don’t… I don’t think I realized how much I _needed_ him to, then.

“So he did. We just talked. For a long time. Or… well, it was probably a long time. We talked about a lot of shit. Even though it only felt like… minutes, maybe. It was probably longer. I… God, I was happy. I was so… happy.”

How pathetic was that? He didn’t want to dwell on that bit, though. Besides, he didn’t _have_ to say it. They both knew it was pathetic.

“Anyway, Danny started talking about how he was sorry, that he wished it hadn’t turned out this way. And I thought, oh, he’s just talking about his death, and knowing I was… knowing I kinda went off the deep-end, trying to find out more about the circus and stuff. But then he said I had to go back. And I– ha– I did _not_ want to. I mean, think you knew that after we met up. It just… it wasn’t fair, right? I was happy, and I’d finally gotten to make my own decisions on _something._ And I just… didn’t want to come back. But something was pulling me, wrenching me away from him, and… it _hurt._ Guess that’s what I get for not feeling anything when I died. Had to get it from somewhere.

“I woke up here, and… nobody could see me. I… I might have yelled at Martin, a bit, him and Georgie, when they didn’t _answer_ me… and you were still asleep, and you looked like shit. At the time, I didn’t really make the connection that it was _you_ that I was back for, just thought it was… all of this bullshit. The Eye. I mean, I was still _pissed,_ either way. But I didn’t know it was _exactly_ you, despite how angry I was.” 

Jon was the only one he’d been able to interact with. Of _course_ he had to be angry at him. Not really an excuse, but then, he wasn’t looking for one.

“And… you know the rest. I knew I was tied to you, but didn’t know to what end. Then Peter met up with me that first day we went back to the Institute, and told me what was happening, that I was your _guardian angel…_ I almost punched him,” he added, if only because _that_ idea made him a little more serene about all of this. “Punching him now would be nice, too. Except I never really see him now, either…” he trailed off, and shrugged. “Anyway, that’s it, statement ends.”

He looked to Jon expectantly, thinking he’d be a little less intense, or just less _tense_ in general, but he was just kind of… staring with the same look. It only lasted for a moment. Then, he sighed, a long, low noise of… _contentment,_ and reached to press the tape recorder off.

“Better?” Tim asked, dry and a little annoyed and… right, oddly a little turned on. Listen, he absolutely did _not_ off on fear. _Especially_ not now. But something about the way Jon had been looking at him… well.

“… yes,” Jon breathed. He slumped, folding his hands in his lap, and just looked… more at ease. Less _Archivist._ More _Jon._ “That was… mm, good. Thank you.”

“Glad you think my death and subsequent not-death was _good.”_

“That’s… not what I meant.”

“I know.” He looked better, though. Sounded better, if not a little… drowsy. The feeling you got after a big meal, he supposed. “I’m just… glad you aren’t gonna be trying to eat someone while I’m not looking, for awhile.”

“Huh. Yeah… but you can’t keep giving me statements forever.”

“Yeah, I am fresh out, and– no offense– don’t want to get or give any more.”

“Right.” Jon leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Right… not like the rest of them would offer, either. Basira would rather kill me, Melanie’s probably… struggling enough talking to her therapist. Daisy… she’s got everything she never told us about her time in the coffin but I couldn’t– I can’t ask that of her.” He rest his head on his hand, shoulders curling forward. Absolutely satiated. It was a good look, and– oh goddammit, what was even the point of _having_ a ghost boner? And honestly, fuck Jon for being so _freaky_ and inviting at the same time.

“Tim?”

A short noise, questioning, and Tim focused back in. Jesus. “What?”

Jon was frowning. “You’re… looking odd.”

_“Thank_ you, Jon. Fantastic way to end a feeding.”

“A fe–” Jon sighed. “I’m just saying, _I’m_ the one who’s been looking out of it. Not you.”

“Just… thinking,” he said reluctantly. It wasn’t a _lie._

“About Danny?”

That would have been the logical route, really, but, _“Christ,_ no.” He’d thought before he didn’t want to compare the two of them. He _absolutely_ did not want to now. Ugh.

“Oh.”

“Sorry. Just… no.”

“Okay.”

For all of Jon’s penchant for asking questions, he didn’t seem to want to ask them this time. He didn’t even _say_ anything else, just slouched a little further. His eyes closed, actually, like he was going to fall asleep sitting there. Hell, maybe he was.

“Jon, if you’re going to take a nap, go to bed.”

“I’m not napping.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not _napping._ I’m thinking.”

“Right. I used to _think_ a lot in the archives storeroom, then.”

“So that’s why nothing ever got done when I asked.”

“Oh, one hundred percent why.”

Jon gave a tiny noise, something indistinct but maybe amused. What was more, he opened his eyes to continue to speak and Tim _really_ thought he was hearing shit because, “am I supposed to ask if I can kiss you, too, then?”

He didn’t hear that. He absolutely didn’t. Because Jon wouldn’t say that.

“Excuse me?”

Maybe Jon _did_ say it. The sigh was… testy. He lifted his chin from his hand and looked at him. “I _said,”_ Jon repeated, “is it within the parameters of whatever this may be to _ask_ before I kiss you.”

Oh, Christ. He had said it. That was so… _not_ Jon. He wasn’t even hungover this time. He didn’t think the statement counted. And speaking of that… this was… _odd_ timing.

“Don’t _tell_ me you’re trying to kiss me out of obligation,” Tim blurted. Probably not the answer Jon had been expecting. Not really what he’d expected to say, either, but, hell, it _was_ a legitimate concern??

“Hmm. No.”

“Jon–”

“I’m _not.”_ Jon sat up a little straighter, and his posture was still… odd. Off, maybe, if not necessarily _odd._ But then again, they were talking about romantic things here. But on the other hand? _If_ Jon wasn’t comfortable with _talking,_ then– “Part of it’s gratitude, I suppose,” Jon continued, “but I’m not particularly inclined to sexual favors as thank-yous. I just… want to, I suppose. Do it properly. Should I _ask_ first?”

“No– you don’t–” _Ugh._ Seriously, everything was difficult. “You don’t have to ask _me,_ Jon. I just… didn’t think you were _particularly inclined_ towards any of this.” A little clarification. “Me,” he added.

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what this is. I need it in practice before I decide. I’d like to attempt something _without_ it being planted on me at thirty miles an hour before going to meet The Web.”

“I already apologized for that.”

“So…”

“So?”

“So,” Jon repeated, and then nodded to himself. It was only a tiny motion, followed up with “I’m going to kiss you, then.”

It was so blunt– _so_ blunt, he’d heard those words before, that phrase exactly from people, but never so _flat_ and _blunt_ and so very Jonathan Sims, which he guessed was the point, now– that he couldn’t help but laugh, even as Jon steadied his hand on the tabletop and leaned across it to kiss him.

A puff of amusement against Jon’s mouth, and then he took up reacting by kissing him back. Because Jon _was_ actually kissing him this time. No stock-still bullshit (but that had been Tim’s fault, he had admitted) and no fear of being, he didn’t know, _rejected._ Jon was the instigator, a little hesitant and clumsy and uncertain with the way his lips were on Tim’s, but… definitely a proper kiss. And Tim _wanted_ to reciprocate, so he did.

It was short, and a little dry. _Passionate_ wasn’t the right word at all, but there was still something… and it was good, like the first time, but better. He pulled back first; Jon didn’t follow, but he did open his eyes– oh, so he’d closed them this time, too. _Better._

“… well?” Tim ventured, holding out his hands in a _so what_ gesture. “Whaddya think, then?” 

“It was… fine.”

_Fine. God,_ this was going to crush his _ego._ (Not really. But it was making him _laugh,_ every damn time.) “‘Fine,’” he repeated, touching his knuckles to his lips. “Just fine. Goddamn, Georgie must have kissed like a _goddess.”_

“She was…” Jon gave a little shrug. “She was fine– err, good. It’s good, okay? It’s nice. Both of you. I _like_ it, I think."

_I like it._ That was… good. That was _better,_ anyway. Jon actually, properly, liked it. That was good. _That_ was nice.

Tim was grinning that stupid, goofy-looking smile again. He knew he was, but it didn’t matter. “Do it again?” he asked.

Jon rolled his eyes, and did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo it's been a couple weeks! my excuse is the same excuse I've been giving elsewhere: we've been hard at work on the tma zine AND i had jm feels AND various ideas thrown at me (plus, yknow, adulting) but I haven't abandoned this, and I miss my jontim, so hopefully I get some time to sit and poke at a new chapter soon 👀 thank you for being patient!


	17. Chapter 17

“You know that’s not really going to help that headache, right?”

Jon’s exasperation was only a small thing, slightly unrecognizable by the pain creasing his face. He took another drink, and set the bottle of water aside. “It’s _meant_ to help, right? Hydration?”

“Not when the headache is because you’re an _actual_ workaholic, Jon. It’s half ten, go _home.”_

“I–” Shoulders heaving, body curling over the counter. “Yes, you’re right, Daisy. You– you and others, you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Melanie’s already asleep, Bas is, I don’t know, researching something. We’ll be fine.”

“How… how is she?” Jon asked hesitantly. “After, er, the trip north–”

Daisy shrugged, a little. “Dunno. Same as I was, after The Buried? Same as Melanie? She’s… she’s coping, I think. We’re not… we’re not the same.”

“Yeah… I know.”

Daisy smiled. It was small, and tired, and summed up pretty much the whole existence at the Institute. “Go home, Jon.”

“Yeah.”

“‘night.”

“Goodnight.”

“‘night, Tim,” she said, and ducked out of the doorway of the break room.

“‘night,” he echoed. She wouldn’t have heard him, anyway. He turned his attention back to Jon. “You better listen to her.”

“I’m _going–_ what are you doing?”

Tim let the rest of himself shift in, hand still pressed to Jon’s forehead. “You kinda look like shit. I wondered if you were getting sick or something.”

“I’ve just got a headache, I’m not… sick or anything.”

“Hungry?”

“No, I had chicke– ah.” Jon stopped, and somehow still had the audacity to scowl even though it was a _legitimate_ question, these days. “No. Not _hungry._ I swear I’m fine.”

“You’d say that if you were dying,” Tim said, matter-of-fact. He tried not to think about it. “But sure, okay. We’re still going home.”

“I said–”

If Tim leaned in to kiss him at that precise moment, _well,_ someone had to get Jon to shut up sometimes and this kept working.

Besides, they were getting pretty good at it.

Jon was still skittish, unsure, and generally tentative when it came down to it, but that wasn’t _bad._ Sexually frustrating, sometimes, on Tim’s end, but it was whatever. Patience and all that. 

He didn’t think sex was really… the endgame, anyway? But he wasn’t sure about that one. They needed to talk about, like, a _lot_ of things, including Jon’s asexuality, but hadn’t yet. So, kissing it was, settling a hand at Jon’s hip to bracket him between his body and the counter. Jon’s tiny noise of disquiet, and the way it was followed by how he kind of… _sort of…_ leaned into Tim to kiss him back. Hesitant in ways Tim wasn’t used to, but didn’t mind.

Christ, but having _feelings_ was scary, though. He tried not to think about that too much, either. 

Jon lingered, hand settling near at Tim’s chest, leaning more of his weight in and Tim thought, _he must really be tired,_ before huffing a breath of laughter against Jon’s mouth.

“What?” Jon didn’t move to say it.

“You must be tired.”

“It’s just the headache.”

“Yeah?” He shifted to slide his hand up, slipping it into Jon’s hair. He was trying to be… calculating, careful, but, at the base of it, he really just wanted to knead his fingertips against Jon’s scalp. “You know she’s right, you need sleep.”

“I know.”

… it was nice, really. His hand in Jon’s hair, with Jon still holding a hand to his chest and close enough to feel his lips millimeters away. _Intimacy._ God, Tim would have killed for that sort of thing, though he’d never been particularly good at expressing that.

“… that’s nice,” Jon said softly. His head tilted, just ever so, towards Tim’s palm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” 

“Well, th–”

The crash from behind startled even _him,_ but that was fair, right? Quiet moment, spooky place, they _both_ jumped when ceramic shattered against the floor. Tim didn’t even think much about turning to glare, because Daisy had just been by. Except it wasn’t Daisy.

“Martin!” Jon blurted, hand seizing at Tim’s arm.

It _was_ Martin, standing in the doorway, shattered mug at his feet. A little pale, freckles stark against his skin, looking a hell of a lot more drawn than he had when Tim had been alive. And he looked just as surprised to see them as they were to see him. Surprised, shocked, and then… _stricken,_ eyes wide, lips parted. He took a breath, and another, chest heaving.

Then he fled.

“Martin!” Jon yanked away from Tim. _“Shit._ Martin!”

“Wait.” Tim grabbed him by the cardigan, pulling him back. “Jon–”

 _“No,_ this might be my _only_ chance to t–”

“I’ll go,” Tim interrupted.

“What?”

“I’m supposed to be _dead,_ Jon. I am dead. Of the biggest shocks here, that’s _probably_ it.” Although… it was a toss-up. Tim did feel bad about that. “I’ll– try to explain,” he said, and rushed out before Jon could try to argue.

All the surprises aside, he was also _pretty_ sure Martin wouldn’t want to see Jon, anyway. Not that Tim following him wouldn’t be salt in the wound, but Martin hadn’t been in love with _him–_

“Martin–”

“Oh my God, oh my God, ohmygod–”

“Martin, wait.”

“This isn’t _happening–”_

“Martin.”

He snatched at his hand, Martin _shrieked,_ something _displaced_ with a crackle and the hair standing up on the back of Tim’s neck, and– they were still in the Institute, in the hallway, but it felt _wrong._ Cold and distant. Lonely– _oh._

“Oh,” he breathed. “Martin.”

“No, you’re not– you weren’t supposed to _follow_ me here– I’ll _lose_ you here–” Now it was Martin holding onto Tim’s sleeve, looking distressed– and then he stopped, a movement like he wanted to cringe away, even if he didn’t. Much. “You’re dead,” he said, a little more firmly. Blunt. But his voice still wavered, like their good, old overemotional Martin. Tim missed that Martin. Martin Blackwood, romantic at heart, best at emotional support and tea and poetry. Not Martin Blackwood, who vanished for months on end and could pull himself and people into the realm of The Lonely. “I _know_ you’re dead.”

“… I am,” Tim said.

“Then you’re not _here.”_

“I am,” Tim repeated. “I’m– I… fuck it. So, I’m apparently an angel now, Martin. Jon’s guardian angel. Yes, it was as much of a shock to me, too, but–”

“No. No, no– no, you were _dead–_ they told me– you were _dead,_ and Jon was dead, and Daisy was gone–”

“And Jon’s alive and Daisy’s sleeping down the hall,” Tim interrupted quickly. “Things aren’t what they look like, you know that. I’m still here, in whatever capacity, and– and, actually,” he added, making a face, “can we not do this here? This– this place isn’t _good,_ Martin, you _know_ that. Neither of us belong here–”

Martin’s face– whatever terrified emotion might have been there– hardened. “Don’t try to tell me that. You don’t _know,”_ he retorted. “I–” He swallowed. The atmosphere shifted. Tim felt like he could breathe again. “I had to do this,” Martin continued quietly, and let go of Tim’s sleeve.

Tim didn’t let go of _him._ “Why.”

“It was like you and the Unknowing. _You_ know,” Martin said. “Please, you– you know. I’m doing this for–”

“I pressed the detonator for _me,_ Martin.” That was… yep. There was that. “Yeah, it _helped_ people, I know, that’s _good._ But I did it because I _wanted_ to,” he said. “The Unknowing was my suicide note, because I _knew_ I couldn’t get out any other way. I just wanted to stick it to somebody. Alright? It wasn’t _noble._ _This_ isn’t noble, and you know it.”

“I– I have to do this. I have to. I’m the only one who can.”

“Says who? _Peter?_ Martin, he would sell you to Satan for one corn chip, don’t let him make you believe that you’re some kind of ‘chosen one.’”

“Why not?” Martin asked suddenly. Tim stared at him, and he stammered, but shoved ahead, anyway. “Why not? Would that– would it be so _bad?_ Oh, so _Martin_ has a role? That can’t be right, he’s just here to be token gay and make _tea!”_

It… was a bit weird, actually, Martin expressing so much of an opinion. Or, well, one that wasn’t endless positivism and glimmering rainbows. Oh, he knew that wasn’t all Martin was. Despite all that enthusiasm while the world had gone to shit, Tim had known Martin possessed a shred of selfishness. The ability to _hate_ someone. To lie and scream and damn the world for what it had put them through.

But Martin was so _very good_ at keeping that held so close to his chest, that it _was_ a bit weird when he got _real._

“… I think ‘token gay’ is a bit inaccurate,” Tim said, a little dry, “considering who you’re talking to.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” He did. “But you don’t want this role, Martin. It’s going to bite you in the arse, and you’re going to end up hurt– or worse.” Like all of them would, probably, and they all knew– had known– it was a hazard of the job.

“I still don’t know why that would be bad,” Martin replied, and his voice was cold, and flat, even if the emotion on his face betrayed it.

“Martin–”

“Look.” Martin took a breath. “Even you got to die for something, Tim. And if that’s what’s coming for me, then… fine. But I have to do this.” He paused, and then, much quieter, continued, “… some of us can’t run away.”

The shock was small, but metallic, and echoed in his chest. Just for a minute. He didn’t care about letting the hurt show, if Martin was looking for it, but, then again… he knew it was true. Maybe pressing that detonator had saved lives, but it _hadn’t_ been noble; it had been _selfish._ He had just wanted out. He’d just told Martin as much. He just hadn’t expected to have it _thrown_ back in his face like that, he guessed.

“… let me go, Tim,” Martin murmured.

… he did, pulling his fingers away from Martin’s wrist. “Jon–”

“Jon doesn’t know what he wants,” Martin said. He rubbed at the spot Tim had been holding, even though he hadn’t been holding tightly. “He– he needs help. And I’m going to help him. Even if he doesn’t want me–” He stopped. Then, just sort of… shook his head, slightly, like chasing away a fly. “I just mean. I can do this much for him, so I’m going to. End of story. I’m sorry, but that’s all, Tim. That’s all I can say.”

 _… not good enough._ That was what he wanted to say. But he didn’t. Martin and Jon, they were more alike than either of them knew, really. Stubborn as hell; trying to force them into something wouldn’t help. It would just make it worse. There was nothing he could say. So, he took a second to formulate words on the argument he might be able to make, the words that _were_ true if only he could persuade Martin that Jon still cared for him, no matter what–

“If it helps, I don’t think Jon wants me, either,” he admitted. The other side of the argument. The _relationship-with-Jon_ side, and not the _please-don’t-be-an-avatar_ side. Hard to tell which was more startling, after Martin had walked in on them like that.

“Sure looked like he did,” Martin retorted, and then just… kind of cringed, a little, and didn’t apologize.

“I don’t think he loves me,” Tim clarified, because he didn’t think so, and he didn’t know how he’d tell, and he didn’t even think _Jon_ would know if he did, either. Things were too complex, right now.

“That doesn’t help.” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” Then, straightening to full height, he looked Tim in the eye. “Listen, make him happy. However. _Whatever._ Whatever helps him, that’s good. I want things to be good, for him. So I’m gonna keep going. You all keep going, too.” Then, he was gone, there and then nothing, and Tim was dazed for a moment before he grasped the dredges of the conversation and pulled it back.

Martin could isolate himself, sure. Okay. But goddamn if Tim wasn’t going to let him disappear into the nothingness entirely. He wasn’t going to let himself _forget._ He’d already forgotten Sasha, and little details on his own brother’s life. Martin might be alone, for now, but he wasn’t going to be forgotten. Not if Tim could help it.

Jon was still in the break room, fingers drumming on the table. The shattered remains of Martin’s mug had been gathered and sat on the tabletop haphazard, tea spill cleaned up. He looked up when Tim walked back in, eyes searching, body tense, _hopeful._

Tim really hated a lot about today.

The light drained from Jon’s face when Tim shook his head. Everything just seemed to sort of leave him, a little. Tim probably wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know Jon so well. But then Jon sagged back in the chair, hands dropping to his lap, and it didn’t take a mind reader to see the hopelessness plastered across his face.

Tim, miserable in his own kind of way, phased back to the spirit realm.

The funny thing was… in a different universe? Jon and Martin really would have made the absolute perfect pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know it had to happen eventually, huh. now how twisted and unhappy does this story become, _huh_


	18. Chapter 18

“God, Martin…”

“The _Extinction?”_ Tim repeated. “Extinction as in, _actual_ extinction?”

“I think the name pretty much implies that.”

“How are you– _extinction,”_ Tim repeated, _again._ “This is, like, the actual end. Not woo-woo clowns end.” Jon looked up, a mixture of being startled and annoyed and utterly alarmed, presumably at his _description_ and not Martin’s tapes. Latter of which he _should_ be alarmed at. “The _end end,”_ Tim continued. “Past The Actual End. There’s Terminus, and then there’s _Extinction.”_ He weighed them on both hands. “That doesn’t _bother_ you?”

“Yes. I mean– yes,” Jon said. “It’s just, you know, there’s always the looming threat of something _awful_ these days–”

“I’m an _actual_ ghost, and I’m the only one concerned about this. Great. That’s great.”

“I’m _concerned,”_ Jon interrupted. “Of course this is bad. And also that Martin’s working with Peter to stop it, rather than… w–well, actually, maybe it’s _better?_ That he’s doing everything for this reason, rather than just… gone over from pure loneliness…?”

Grasping at straws again. Jon didn’t even seem to notice he _did_ that when it came to Martin, these days. 

… he was about to ask something he might regret, but he had never been good at holding his tongue. “Right, I’m gonna ask you something, and it’s going to seem like a dick question, but I’m serious: do you have feelings for Martin?”

Jon stopped, hand still held aloft over the tape recorder. Just looking… frozen. Something indescribable on his face, like shock, Tim supposed, but it really wasn’t _that_ shocking of a question. Then again, Jon wasn’t seeing the way his face did a _thing_ when someone mentioned Martin.

“What…?” Jon finally looked up, lowering his hand to the desk. “What do–”

“Feelings. Martin. You.”

“Tim–”

“I know it’s shit timing. I know.” They might have a literal _extinction_ on their hands, coming soon. “But you like to run away from things, and I… I’m not much better, really, so I’m asking. Now. Honestly.”

“I… I need him to be safe,” Jon said softly.

“And _I_ need _you_ to be safe, and we’ve already established how I feel about you.”

The faint flush of bashful awkwardness was… cute. But then Jon pushed forward, stammering only a little bit. “I– I don’t think it’s… I don’t think it’s that. I’m not sure, but I don’t…”

“You feel responsible for him?”

“A– A bit, yes,” Jon admitted. “A lot, actually, but I still, it’s not that, entirely… I just need him to be alright. He’s… he deserves _so_ much more than– than Peter Lukas and _the_ _Extinction._ I want to make sure he gets it, after everything I’ve put him through. Even if I– even if he… he…”

“Oookay.” Tim interrupted, because Jon looked about ready to have an apoplectic fit or… something worse. “Calm down, it’s _okay,_ I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Listen, out of the two of us, I think I have a _tiny_ bit more experience with–”

“I feel guilty,” Jon interrupted, a little loud and a little sharp, and Tim’s words stuck on his tongue. “I… God, that sounds _terrible,”_ Jon muttered, “but it’s… I’m thinking, if _I_ had done something differently, with him, he wouldn’t have… he wouldn’t have been _lonely_ enough for Peter to single out in the first place–”

… silly. He’d been about to interrupt that he had more experience in this department, but then Jon sat and talked about feeling guilty for _not loving Martin back_ during the past few years, and he… was almost starting to sound like _he_ knew more about it than Tim did.

But it was as stupid as it was just plain silly.

“You can’t make yourself love someone, Jon.”

“I… no,” Jon agreed, folding his hands on the desk. “Rationally, I _know_ that. And I have a hard enough time making myself feel _anything_ positive, these days. But did I– did I lead him on, maybe?”

“No.”

Jon looked up.

“Full offense, but you were _kind of_ an arse to him for a long while when we first started working together. He just… as much as _you_ can’t make _yourself_ fall in love _,_ _he_ couldn’t stop _himself_ from falling in love with _you.”_ Tim paused. Tried to think. “I think.”

Kinda the same with him. He hadn’t wanted to fall in love with Jon. Ask him a few months ago, when he’d been alive, and he would have said a _lot_ of things about the idea. But shit happened. Even if it wasn’t reciprocated. And that, that there, wasn’t something Tim could quite bring himself to ask about. Running away.

At this stage, it wouldn’t matter if Jon didn’t love him, either. He was in too deep himself for it to make any difference. He and Martin might as well be in the same boat, except Jon actually kissed him, on occasion.

“You think,” Jon murmured. Then he raised his head, looking directly across the room at Tim. “Is that how you fell in love with me? You couldn’t help yourself.”

Sensation across his skin, from the tips of his toes to the roof of his mouth. Skittering, encompassing, warm. “Yes,” he said, and it was only a second or two afterwards that the full realization of being compelled hit like a truck. Jon had actually… _done_ it, to him.

He must have looked shocked. Jon looked startled, and then contemplative, and, finally, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I thought it didn’t work.”

“Apparently it does now.”

“I’m– I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine,” Tim said. A missed opportunity on response to the _you couldn’t help yourself,_ but, whatever. He shrugged. “Not like I’ve been keeping deep, dark secrets here.” _Not about this._

“But still…”

“Don’t worry about it. Bigger fish to fry. Don’t feel guilty for Martin,” he continued. That was easier to talk about, rather than _laying his heart bare._ “You can’t help who you love and you can’t help who you don’t, and what-ifs’ll just keep you up at night. We can focus on helping him now. Helping him stop the Extinction… apparently… Jesus.”

Compared with that kind of threat, Tim thought he’d rather tell Jon he loved him.

“Right…” Jon sighed, reaching to tug his glasses off. “Right. Except I don’t know what to do about _that,_ either.”

Times like this, he wished he could drink.

Oh wait. He could.

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” he said quickly. Jon looked up without putting his glasses back on. “We’re gonna go home, and we’re going to _drink._ No,” he interrupted, “that’s a normal thing you do when you find out about the end of the world. We’re _both_ going to drink, and then, when we sober up, we’ll figure this shit–” he jabbed a finger at the recorder– “out.”

“That’s… not…” Jon struggled, and Tim cut him off.

“No, that _is_ the best idea I’ve heard all day. And it’s the first time I just remembered I can fade in and get drunk, don’t take that away from me. Come _on,_ Jon. I’ll tell you embarrassing stories about my childhood.”

“What do I want to hear that for?”

“Because you like knowledge,” Tim replied, and gestured to the door. “Meet you at home.” He didn’t give Jon the chance to respond, because he knew he’d follow this time, anyway.

 

 _“– anyway,_ I thought I was being sneaky, but I ended up getting after-school detention for a week–”

“I had detention once…”

“You’re _joking.”_

“No–” Jon clutched at his wine cooler, frowning a little. “Wasn’t my fault, though.”

“Oh, it never is.”

“I’m _serious,”_ Jon interrupted. “Someone threw my books into the courtyard, I _had_ to go get them, except the courtyard was off limits–”

“You got picked on a lot in primary, huh.”

“And secondary, and uni.”

“Why am I _not_ surprised?”

“Because I was the nerd, not the jock. Your type was the ones who usually bothered me.”

“Right.” Tim held up one hand, and held the other over his heart. “I apologize on behalf of all rambunctious students who tried to overcompensate for something by being mean to little scrawny shits like you.”

“It’s not my fault I’m _small,”_ Jon complained. “What do you want me to do, _stretch?”_

“Yes! That!” The bottle cap clattered to the floor, and Tim gestured to the ceiling with his beer. “Reach for the stars, Jon.”

“No,” Jon replied, serious. “Don’t know what’s reaching back.”

“Ergh, _please,_ no Vast vibes. Can’t imagine falling into nothing while drunk, _ugh.”_ He took a drink and set it aside clumsily. “‘s okay, though. Don’t need to stretch. You’re a good size. I like it. I couldn’t do this,” he reached over, looping his arms around Jon’s waist to _pull_ him onto his lap with a squawk of indignation, “easily otherwise.” 

“What are you– Tim!”

“Yeah, that’s what I am, all right.” He ducked his head to kiss him before he could try to protest any further. Shutting him up, and all of that.

Jon tasted like those dumb fucking wine coolers that he’d still managed to get buzzed off of, and sighed against Tim’s mouth before kissing him back.

“I’m Tim. You’re Jon,” he continued, an experimental bite at Jon’s lip. “We’re drunk,” he added, and Jon spluttered.

“I’m not _drunk.”_

“You just _spit on me–”_

“Er, sorry.”

“Save it for something else.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Tim said easily, and kissed him again.

He used to think Jon was all angles. Hard edges that couldn’t be dulled. And of course the alcohol helped, but… it wasn’t entirely true anymore. Jon wasn’t so many angles. There were curves to glide along, something soft to grip and bury his fingers into. And God was it good, buzzed and buzzing, Jon breathing heavy, kisses lingering, messy but concentrated at his mouth and jaw and neck. 

He wondered if Jon had been this way all along.

Jon braced a hand on Tim’s chest, scooting in further, which was _encouraging_ because Jon was generally uncertain with his hands, fluttering nearby and nervous to touch.

“Ah.”

“Hm?”

“You’re hard.”

“Yeee _p.”_

“I’m–”

 _Not._ Yeah, his hand was close enough at his thigh that he’d noticed. Wasn’t like it mattered, though. “Yeah. So?”

Jon made a vague _I dunno_ sound, and went back to kissing him. Tim beamed, and only broke away long enough to nose at his hairline. Bite at his earlobe and feel him writhe atop him. Hard not to be hard when Jon was the one _squirming_ like that.

He was pretty sure Jon catching his nail over one of his nipples was an accident, but he still jerked, and yeah, okay, he was _hard,_ but he was also startlingly aware of the fact of _how long it had been since he’d had sex._ Jesus. He hadn’t even taken advantage of the fact he could have it off, so preoccupied with _Jon_ and being around _Jon_ in his physical form that he definitely could have been using that time to wank. Wasted opportunities.

Anyway, he didn’t have much time to focus on that, cause Jon’s hand had settled at the waist of his trousers. Which, okay, waist, that was where you put your hands, but you definitely _didn’t_ curl your fingers into the waistband unless you were planning on getting in them and that wasn’t. The intention. He didn’t think. (Definitely not.) Right, he was a little drunk, but it _definitely_ wasn’t the intention. Especially when _Jon_ wasn’t hard. Especially when they were sloshed.

Serious thoughts aside, Tim’s voice still came out a little _amused_ when he tried to ask “what are you doing?”

“I dunno.” 

Jon’s fingers wiggled a bit, and Tim tried _not_ to shift in response this time.

“Cause it looks like you’re making a move for my dick, there.”

“You’re hard,” Jon repeated, stubborn in all kinds of ways that Tim didn’t _really_ wanna think about with him sitting on his lap.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not obligation there, short stuff.”

“Don’t– _tall stuff.”_

“Oh, that’s a good– Christ,” he choked, as Jon had slipped his hand down to settle _over_ his dick and that was so goddamn obscene even _with_ their clothes on because it was _Jonathan Sims_ doing it– “Christ, Jon,” he rasped, grabbing his wrist, “quit, you dumb fuck.”

“What?” Jon complained. “You want–”

“Oh, I _do,_ but you’re drunk and you’ve gotten _really_ interested in the past two minutes since you realized I’ve got a boner. And I don’t think you _realize_ you’re probably trying to get at me out of obligation, and I’m not letting you do that– _ugh,_ don’t make me get sober to have a discussion about boundaries, _please.”_

“It’s not a _boundary._ I want to make _you_ happy.”

“Ooooohhh no,” Tim said, wrenching Jon’s hand away. Those were _not_ the words he wanted to hear. Like, kudos, but no. “We’re not doing that.”

Jon gave in without much fight, although he did lean a little further against Tim’s chest. Whether out of defeat or alcohol, Tim wasn’t sure. “Why not? What’s wrong with being happy?”

“Because you already make me happy, Jon. You don’t need to help me toss off for me to be _happy.”_

Jon made a face, discontented.

 _“Besides,”_ Tim continued, “once the booze wears off, I don’t want you regretting it.”

“I regret _everything,”_ Jon muttered, slumping the rest of the way against Tim. He had to wrap his arms around him to make sure he didn’t topple over, and sighed as Jon snuggled in.

“Well…” Tim sighed, burying his face in his hair again. “Not adding to it, today. Not like this. This is fine.”

“Fine,” Jon agreed halfheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'M SO SORRY I realized it had been a bit and then it's been??? a month??? since the last update?? moving into production for the magzine kicked my ass and then... holidays... and I work retail... but _jontim we're back baby_
> 
> anyway boy he sure doesn't realize he just admitted to loving jon by saying yes to 'is that how you fell in love with me' huh talk about oblivious smh


	19. Chapter 19

“I’m sorry.”

Jon’s declaration was short, and sharp, and very, very sudden, all things considered. Which meant, self-awareness wasn’t his strong suit and he wasn’t prone to apologizing for things without being told off about them first.

Tim blinked, and looked up at him. “What?”

“The…” He gestured vaguely. “If we had known…”

“Oh. The blinding thing.”

“You wouldn’t have had to…”

“Yeah, see how much good it did me,” Tim interrupted.

“I’m–”

“It’s okay,” he said softly, and looked back at the papers surrounding him on the floor. Jon had made transcripts of all of Martin’s Extinction recordings. Paper transcripts along with the tapes, _just in case._ Tim stared at the words without digesting them. 

The statement from Eric had been… God, he didn’t know. Jon had been so pale he’d looked like he was about to faint, and then he’d gone to Martin because… guilt. Because needing someone _alive_ and actually _using_ their eyes, needing someone to convince him ~~stop him~~ into going through with testing the theory. And… Tim hadn’t really been worried about that. Because he’d known Martin wouldn’t encourage it. That aside, Jon wouldn’t _do_ it.

So the whole thing was shocking. Yeah. No denying that.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s okay?’” Jon repeated. “There was a way out, you could have–”

“No,” Tim said quietly. It still shut Jon up, and Tim raised his head again. “I couldn’t have. I couldn’t have done it. At base level? I probably would have been too much of a coward to do it.”

He hadn’t even been able to move while watching his brother _die._ How could have he _possibly_ have gouged his own eyes out?

“But… you… the Unknowing…”

“Yeahhhh, I died, Jon. That was permanent. That wasn’t doing something irreversible and then having to live with the consequences.” Oh, he would have tried. Definitely. Probably gotten as far as prepping knife or acid or _whatever,_ and then would have hated himself when he wasn’t able to go through with it. “I couldn’t do it any more than you could.”

“I– I was–”

“No, you weren’t. Martin’s right, that’s why you went to _him.”_

“… one day,” Jon murmured. “Maybe then–”

“Maybe,” Tim agreed, “or maybe we find another way to fuck off the Entities and we won’t have to worry about it at all.”

“That… since when did you turn into an optimist?”

“Since Martin turned into a pessimist. Here.” He shifted the laptop around, angling the screen up towards Jon. “They’ve been doing a lot of _perceived_ nuclear testing here. These coordinates. I don’t know if it means anything, but if we’re looking for potentially suspect places for _The Terrible Change…”_ he trailed off.

Jon looked… _odd._ Not even necessarily _hey, we’re talking about the extinction of all humankind_ odd but just… not right. Which. Was _not_ good when Jon was The Archivist. He’d seen him unconscious and coming back from The Buried and The Dark and through feedings and hunger and it wasn’t the same to that _glazed over_ look in his eyes.

“Jon.”

He focused back in, looking down at Tim. “Huh?” Just like that, he… almost looked normal. Almost.

“What the hell was that?”

“What?”

_“You.”_

“I just… nothing.” Jon shrugged. “Ghost walked over my grave?” he tried, and his smile was too feeble, and too hangdog for Tim to be even _remotely_ soothed.

“That’s not funny,” he said. “And I’m sitting still.”

“I think there’s probably more ghosts than just you,” Jon said. “It was just a weird feeling.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, _“except spooky feelings are_ spooky _for a reason here,_ Jon. What was it about?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. _Really,”_ Jon stressed. “I didn’t _See_ anything, if that’s what you’re after. Just a bit of a shiver.”

“A shiver,” he repeated, incredulous. Because, yeah. Nothing was _simple_ here. The general sense of doom was an all-the-time thing, not a stop-and-stare-into-space occasional lapse.

“I’ll keep an eye out if I feel it again,” Jon added, and he did seem a little, Tim didn’t know, contrite? Like it really had been a cold spot in the heat of the archives. Like they were making a big deal from nothing. Which Tim didn’t exactly believe, but…

_He’d_ keep an eye on _Jon._

“Are you hungry?” he asked critically, and Jon sighed.

_“No._ W–Well– yes,” he muttered. “Always, these days. But I’m _managing,”_ he continued, raising his voice. “Same as always. You’d know if I wasn’t.” 

“Yeah.”

“But what were you saying about the nuclear testing?” Jon continued, crouching next to him. “A location for the Ritual?”

… he’d let it go, for now. “… maybe.” He tapped on the screen. “Here. But, you know, ‘man-made disaster’ isn’t giving us a whole hell of a lot to go on since, oh, nuclear warfare, global warming, pollution, etcetera etcetera.”

“Right.” Jon put two fingers on the trackpad, and started scrolling. “Is it– is it terrible to say it would serve us right if this Ritual went off?”

“… probably not,” Tim muttered. Man-made Fear. Not that some of the others weren’t a byproduct of their own actions, but this was, like, _actually_ man-made. Not that he’d been a paragon of reducing his own carbon emissions and all of that, but… _yeah._ “Probably _don’t_ tempt it, though,” he added.

Jon laughed, humorless, and muttered a halfhearted “no,” under his breath.

 

Jon was a restless sleeper, these days. He hadn’t slept like the dead since… since Tim didn’t know. Alcohol didn’t count, and even the hangovers didn’t last as long as Tim remembered his own lasting. But that stuff wasn’t important, really. They were talking about sleep. Jon, not being able to sleep like he used to. Tim was pretty sure he did it out of spite these days. Not so different from why Tim slept, too, actually.

He could be human, so he did. Jon could pretend to be human, so he did, too.

And Jon had a comfortable bed, what could he say. Cuddling had been the best part of casual relationships, right after orgasms and maybe even higher on the list than making out. Maybe. And he didn’t even mind that Jon _squirmed_ so goddamn much. Usually.

This time, Jon scrambled upright, clawing at the blankets and bracing a hand on Tim’s chest as he panted for breath. Odd. Tim hadn’t really noticed him having a nightmare, but, well, _he’d_ been asleep, too.

“… alright?” he mumbled, patting the back of Jon’s hand.

“… no.”

“Mm.” Yeah. Nightmares did that. “What was this one about?”

“… something’s not right.” Jon tossed the blankets away, mattress creaking as he staggered out of bed.

_That_ got him awake, too. “What? Jon…?” He fumbled with the blankets for a second, and then gave up, letting them phase through him. He started after him. “Jon, wait a sec– talk to me.” Christ, it was too early for this. Too late. He didn’t know.

“Something’s not right.”

“What? Where– Jon, what are you doing?” He caught a hand at Jon’s elbow, steadying him as he tried to step into his shoes. “Where are you going??”

“The Institute.”

_Where else would he be going, Tim?_ “Wait, wait wait wait, _Jon.”_ He held onto his arm a little tighter, pulling him back a step. “It’s literally still dark out and you’re in your pyjamas, _why_ do you think something’s going to happen–” Stupid question. “– and why, in God’s name, _are you running towards it again?”_

“Let go.”

“No, I won’t. _Not_ this time. Let whatever is going to happen _happen,_ Jon. Maybe it’ll actually be _good_ for us!” 

“The Beholding–”

_“Fuck_ The Beholding!”

“Tim–”

“No, you need to–”

“Let **_go!!”_ **

The words slammed into him at _the_ worst angle, crashing into him with actual force and actual pain; he jerked back with an exclamation of that sensation, starbursts of light and agony beneath his eyes. He nearly doubled over from the ache, and then he was staggering back into his own realm. Out of breath and– and– _shit,_ what the fuck–

Jon was staring at him with a mixture of wide-eyed panic, which was really fucking _sayin’_ something, because the glowing green outline stamped in the center of his forehead was _absolutely_ not _normal,_ and it was in the shape of an _eye._ Third eye? The Beholding–

“Jesus _Christ,_ Jon!” he exclaimed.

Jon stared at him for a moment longer– then turned and fled.

Okay. _Okay._ So. So– so– Jon was _definitely_ The Archivist, and they’d known that, _he’d_ known that. He wasn’t _normal,_ but for all outward appearances, he was… _relatively_ normal, but now _this–_

Tim was standing in an empty house, and Jon was out going full on Beholding to stop whatever was about to happen at the Institute.

“… oh fuck _no, Jonathan Sims!”_ he yelled, vanishing with a crack and a headache lingering from Jon’s shout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in 2020, let's resolve to giving Jon lots and lots of glowing eyes and power he doesn't know how to control!!! (and a tim to chase after him when he goes off the deep end)


	20. Chapter 20

“This way.”

“Jon– hold _on.”_ He wasn’t listening. “How do you even know where we’re _going?”_

“I can See.”

“With your third eye.”

Because that was a thing. Because _of course_ it was a thing, still there, a flickering presence beneath Jon’s skin like The Beholding was forcing its way through him. Like Jon was trying to fight The Beholding, or The Beholding was trying to fight Jon. God, Tim hoped it was only a third eye. What if it was a fourth, a fifth– so on so forth? What if Jon was _all_ eyes?

 _Stop thinking about it!_  

Either way, they were hurtling pell-mell through the tunnels, paths and twists and angles Tim had never seen when he’d used them before. In further, deeper, than he had gone. Maybe even further than _Jon_ had gone. Definitely further, even if Jon seemed to know exactly where to go and when to go there. Because he knew how to get there thanks to The Eye.

 _“I–I–I think it’s Martin,”_ Jon had said on the way. _“Whatever he’s planning, I think–”_ and then cue the grumble and hiss of Jon shaking something from his head, an idea or a thought or, hell, a presence. _“I need to be there. The Beholding doesn’t like it.”_

“The Beholding _doesn’t like it.”_

_“Yes.”_

Jon was fighting against _The Archivist,_ and Tim was struggling to keep up in the darkness of the tunnels.

“Jon, _slow down,”_ he ordered. “If I lose you here, I won’t _find_ you.” Maybe. He wasn’t sure. This place didn’t _feel_ right, like it wasn’t connected to The Institute, like he wasn’t at free will with his ‘powers’ here. If Jon got hurt, he didn’t know if he’d be able to just _go_ to him, in this place. If Jon got lost… Tim might actually lose him forever. “We need to–”

Jon wrenched to a stop and Tim staggered, stumbling through him before he could stop himself.

“Jon?”

“Shh.”

“Jon.”

“Be _quiet.”_

Tim huffed, materializing enough to take Jon’s hand and _hold onto it._ Fine, he’d shut up, but he wouldn’t be totally complacent here–

“… very well done, Martin.” Peter. Tim looked at Jon, and Jon was staring into the darkness leading to and from the corridor. “Now, I need you to make a decision for me.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

“You want me to become a full avatar,” Martin said, and his voice was flat, and if Jon looked… scary– determined– then Tim was starting to feel it, too. _The Beholding doesn’t like it_ wasn’t important. Martin, becoming an avatar of The Lonely, that was. “And I don’t care. I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful, Martin. I’m so proud of you.”

“You don’t need to keep saying it.” 

“It _is_ for your benefit, not mine.”

“It’s _really_ not.”

Jon started forward. Tim pulled him back.

“What’s the plan?” he hissed. “We can’t go into this without a _plan.”_

“Same as always,” Jon said distractedly. “It’s the same as always.”

“‘Same as always’ means there’s _no plan!”_

“The plan is go in, stop Peter, save Martin.” Jon jerked his wrist free. “Are you coming or not?”

“Of _course_ I am!”

He didn’t even have time to finish before Jon was charging the corner, leading them to where Martin and Peter were waiting. Or not waiting, by the look of surprise on Martin’s face when they did charge around the corner.

“Martin.”

“Jon…?”

“Oh, dear. Your colleagues are so self-sacrificial, Martin. How much time I’ve wasted trying to protect them and your Archivist shows up here anyway.”

“And me.” Tim phased in, settling next to Jon. “Don’t forget your token _guardian angel,_ Peter.”

“Oh, Tim. Good to see you.”

“Not. Likewise.”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted, _“go.”_

“No. I’m not letting you–”

“You knew I was doing this! You trusted me to do this!”

“I trusted you– I _do_ trust you,” Jon hissed, “but not to this end. You’re _not_ becoming an avatar of The Lonely for– for _whatever this is._ For the Extinction.”

“Just because _you_ get to be an avatar–” Martin stopped, and looked at Tim instead. “Tim, please. _Please,_ take him and go.”

… he almost sounded like the old Martin. Like Martin of the past who’d beg Tim not to divulge his juiciest secrets (that he was in love with Jonathan Sims) like Martin who was caught doing something he ought not to have been (jerking it in doc storage, once, during that messy time after the worms, and Tim hadn’t even blamed him) or just like… like there was something he didn’t want them to know, that he did know, and that didn’t want to share.

Or maybe it was that he was trying to share it without saying it, staring at Tim the way he was. Begging him to understand.

… well, Tim _didn’t._ He hadn’t seen Martin in months. Save that one conversation and that vague here and there, the last time he’d actually _talked_ to Martin had been a year ago. Before his death. Tim barely knew himself anymore. He definitely didn’t know Martin. The goal here was kinda to get that back, when it was said and done. That’s _why_ they were here. But he didn’t understand now.

“Tim,” Martin said urgently. “Get him out of here–”

“Martin, look at him,” he interrupted. “His fuckin’ forehead’s glowing, I can’t make him go anywhere he doesn’t want, and he doesn’t want to go anywhere without _you._ Me, too, actually. So either abandon your plan–”

“Excuse me,” Peter said.

“No,” Tim snapped. “Fuck you.” He looked back at Martin. “Abandon your plan and come back with us or I’ll _make_ you, Martin. We’ll make you. All of this– we’re the last remaining archival assistants. Even Melanie got out, you know? So it’s up to us to stop this, _together,_ you idiot, not each of us going off half-cocked like I did with The Unknowing, because look at where it got _me._ _Dead.”_

“You’re still here!” Martin exploded. “Yeah, you _died,_ but you’re still here, and you’re not even an avatar so–”

“Excuse–”

“Would you shut _up?”_ Tim snapped, whirling on Peter. “You– this is your fault. So shut the fuck up, before we make you shut the fuck up.”

He didn’t know if Peter looked nonplussed or vaguely disgruntled. It was hard to tell. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Jon?”

“I… I’ve never tried. I’m used to forcing people to speak, not… the other way around.” Jon tilted his head. “I wouldn’t mind trying, though. I feel like… it feels like The Beholding would help do anything, right now.”

“It’s too late,” Peter said. “Martin–”

“It’s not too late.”

“It is too late,” Martin said. “It is. Tim. Jon… _please,_ go. Now. _Please._ Let me– just let me–”

“I’m not leaving,” Jon murmured. “We’re–”

“Oh, _God,_ Jon! You–”

There was a low, rumbling shudder of noise from above, a thin layer of dust cascading from the ceiling. Tim looked up, feeling the vibrations in his body and bones, confusion flickering into his irritation and worry. They really didn’t need anything _else–_  

Jon hissed, hands flying to his head.

“Jon?”

 _“Shit,”_ Martin swore under his breath. “Tim, take him and go, _now–”_

Another noise, a defined resonant noise that shook the walls, cracking the foundations and dirt around them. Explosives– he had a little knowledge on the sound of C4 as it started to go off, just a _little,_ huh– “Shit, Martin,” he breathed.

 _“Now,_ Tim!”

They’d walked into a trap. Martin _had_ had it well under control (or, well, remained to be seen, he guessed) and they had walked _into a trap–_

“Get him out of here, please, _please–”_

“Martin– ergh–” Jon staggered, and then collapsed, hands still at his head and… in pain.

Martin had set a trap for Peter, and The Beholding had called Jon here to _stop it_ because the destruction of The Institute was too much for their patron Entity to bear thinking of– 

“Oh _fuck!”_

Tim spun for Jon as the third explosion shook the tunnels, and the ceiling caved in around them.

 

… Tim was really starting to hate explosions. He hadn’t gone ghost before the ceiling had come in, and he _ached._ Blood and bruises, and the burning familiar pain at his chest. Different now, full of emotion, love and terror, and… he had to get Jon. His ears were ringing. There was heat around him. And he had to get to Jon.

“Fuck,” he rasped, and pushed himself up. “Jo– _Jon._ Martin…?” 

Fuck. Fucking Martin! He could have– he could have _told_ them! Ahead of time. If there was anyone who could have kept the secret from Peter, it would have been _Jon–_ but no– _Christ!_ Christ, it didn’t matter right now. They weren’t supposed to be there, but they were, and it was too late, it didn’t matter now.

“Jon– Jon. J– ow.” _God,_ he hurt. In danger to Jon ways, in… other ways. Human ways and angel ways, and he coughed over smoke and ash and flinched when another explosion sent him scrambling the other way. This whole place was going to… burn. That was probably Martin’s intention. Burn down The Institute. Tear it apart from the inside out. And it was… _satisfying,_ it was so satisfying, Tim had to admit, but… “Jon!” he yelled, slipping over a pile of rubble. Had to be near here, somewhere, even if he didn’t see Martin or Peter, either. Those two were outliers, anyway, and Jon–

“Nnghhh.”

“Shit, right, Jon? Jon!” He licked his lips, and tried something else. “Archivist…?”

“Mmm…”

“Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute,” he called. “C’mon, Beholding, you won’t let him _die._ Where is he?”

“… Tim…”

“Coming, hold on, I’m– yeah, there– Jon,” he exclaimed, shoving a pile of rubble out of the way. “Jon, Jon. Hey, Jon. Boss, c’mon, talk to me. You okay?”

It was hard to see, dark and dust, only the flickering light and sound of explosions for company. Jon was _bloody,_ but alive, and Tim scrambled to pull him from the rubble and get him _the hell out of here–_

Another crack and bang, too close, and Tim thought _he_ yelped now, throwing his arm out to shield Jon from the explosion– except, except– except he was curled around him protectively, yeah, but curled around him with _wings_ outstretched– wings, wings… 

… okay, that made sense. He _was_ an angel.

Too large for the small space, too bulky and _complicated,_ and Tim just _stared_ for a second at… wings. _His_ wings. Which didn’t _look_ like your typical movie angel wings, they were… slate gray and tapered and– and– 

… Jon. Jon. He was here to protect Jon. Guardian angel crisis _later._ He had wings. _Neat._ Worry about it _later._

He gathered Jon into his arms– guess he got both arms and wings, convenient, huh– and started running.

Where was he supposed to be going? He couldn’t– so he probably _could_ fly, now that he had actual fucking _wings,_ but– they were underground! And this place was exploding, and on fire, and he couldn’t _vanish_ like this, feeling too heavy and bulky and _wrong,_ and even if he could, he probably wouldn’t be able to take Jon with him and… shit. Shit! How the hell was he supposed to get out of these _tunnels–_  

Jon was pale, looking smaller than usual, wheezing in his arms.

… couldn’t die here. Couldn’t let him die here.

Tim hustled past a doorway just as another echoing rattle shook from above, and then… he stopped. A doorway. _Right._ The Spiral knew these tunnels. The Spiral was probably always watching, too.

“Hey– Spiral!” he yelled, doubling back. “Oh shit. _Helen.”_ He pounded his hand against the door, and it… opened.

“Hello, Timothy.”

She– it? It was… nothing like how he remembered the brief memory of Helen Richardson giving her statement in the archives so long ago. And he _barely_ remembered anyway, because there was so much and it had been a long time and goddammit, he had _angel wings–_ but anyway, she– it– _The Spiral_ had hands like he remembered from Michael, so this had to be _right,_ and Jon talked about The Distortion now and again, so– maybe–

_“Help us.”_

“And why would I do that?”

“You– you showed us your door.”

“Perhaps I was just watching.”

“You can watch without showing me the goddamn door. Will you help us?” Tim demanded, tightening his grip around Jon. He didn’t trust The Spiral. But he couldn’t go _up,_ not anymore, and he couldn’t go any further down, either. They were _trapped._ And The Spiral had a door, wherever it would lead. It led from here. That was all that mattered.

“No,” the Spiral said, and giggled.

Christ, _just_ like Michael. Tim glared, and– couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t. He had to– “Fuck you and Michael both, then,” he snapped, turning. If he could find a clear path–

“Hold on.”

… he glanced over his shoulder, to Helen’s smiling face and the rotating curves beyond the door. 

“I like your Archivist.”

“Great,” Tim retorted. “So do I. Change of heart?”

“I said I wouldn’t help… us.”

“… me,” Tim said softly. 

“Yes.”

“You won’t help _me.”_

“No.”

“But you’ll help _him.”_

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” he spat. “We don’t have the time–”

“I’ll take him. But not you.” Helen smiled. “Do you trust me, Timothy?”

“No.” _God,_ no. “… but Jon has. He tried to help you, you’ve helped him.” _I don’t have a choice._ “Will you take him somewhere safe?”

“Him,” Helen said, “… I think I will. For now.”

“… fine,” Tim agreed begrudgingly. He couldn’t keep him here. He _would_ die here, as The Beholding’s main source of information burnt down around them. Tim wondered if he might himself, but it didn’t matter. His job was saving Jon. Making hard choices. _Trusting the goddamn Spiral to do it for him._ Shit. “Fine, take him. Take care of him until I catch up.”

“I said I’d take him,” Helen said. “I can’t promise on taking _care_ of him,” it said, and Tim glared as he settled Jon’s body into The Spiral’s… arm-things.

“Don’t kill him, and don’t dump him, and I’ll be tickled pink,” he clarified. “Since I can’t come through your _door.”_

“I do like you, Timothy Stoker, but even I try not to open doorways to Death.”

He frowned. “Am I supposed to know what that means?” And then cringed, glancing up, another explosion and splinter of wood and concrete. The bones of the Institute crumbling around them. “Go, just _go._ I’ll find you, Jon. Promise.” _I swear._

“Where would you like me to put him after?”

“Somewhere _safe.”_

“Where’s that?” Helen stepped back through the doorway, looking over its shoulder. “You may owe me, Timothy.”

“If you keep him safe, I really don’t care if I do.”

“I know,” Helen said, and laughed as the door closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ̀  
> ↑
> 
>   
>  wings, babie   
> 


End file.
